A Song of Steam and Gunpowder
by Dragonsquire
Summary: X-over w/the Lost Regiement Series. They were swept from Civil War America to a medival world of dark trechary and deadly intrigue. How will the Game of Thrones be played with Civil War Yankees on the board?
1. Chapter 1

Game of Thrones and all related characters are the property of HBO and George R. R. Martin. The Lost Regiment series and characters likewise belong to William R. Forstchen and ROC publishing. No money is being made from their use in this work of fanfiction.

ANDREW

January 6, 1865  
Four hundred miles southwest of Bermuda

For the first time in three days, Andrew Lawrence Keane realized, the seasickness had left him. He paused for a moment in wonder; was there nothing left in him to get sick with, or was it the simple stark terror of what was happening?

Tobias Cromwell, insisting that the growing storm would not interfere with his schedule, had passed out of the Chesapeake and on into the Atlantic, even as the wind gust picked up to thirty knots. From there it had simply gotten worse, and by the end of the day they were racing before a southwesterly gale of near-hurricane proportions. The boilers had long since been damped down, and now they were running bare-poled before the wind.

Hanging on to a railing next to the wheel, Andrew watched as Tobias struggled to keep them afloat.

"Here comes another!" came the cry from the stern lookout.

Wide-eyed, Tobias turned to look aft.

"Merciful God!" he cried.

Andrew followed his gaze. It seemed as if a mountain of water was rushing toward them. A wave towered thirty or more feet above the deck.

"A couple points to starboard!" Tobias roared.

Mesmerized, Andrew watched as the mountain rushed down upon them and the stern rose up at a terrifying angle. Looking forward, he felt that somehow the ship could never recover, that it would simply be driven like an arrow straight to the bottom.

The wall of water crashed over them, and desperately he clung to the rope which kept him lashed to the mizzenmast. The ship yawed violently, broaching into the wind. As the wave passed over them, he saw both wheelmen had been swept off their feet, one of them lying unconscious with an ugly gash to the head, the wheel spinning madly above them.

Tobias and several sailors leaped to the wheel, desperate to bring the ship back around.

"Here comes another!"

Rising off the starboard beam, Andrew saw another wave towering above them.

"Pull, goddammit, pull!" Tobias roared.

Ever so slowly the ship started to respond, but Andrew could see that they would not come about in time. For the first time in years he found himself praying. The premonition that had held for him and the regiment, that they were damned, was most likely true after all, even if the end did not come on a battlefield.

The wave was directly above him, its top cresting in a wild explosion of foam. The mountain crashed down.

He thought surely the rope about his waist would cut him in two. For one wild moment it appeared as if the ship was rolling completely over. His lungs felt afire as they were pushed beyond the bursting point. But still he hung on, not yet ready to give in and take the breath of liquid death.

The wave passed, and Andrew, gasping for air, popped to the surface. They had foundered, the vessel now resting on its portside railing. Helpless at the end of the rope, he looked about, cursing that his fate was in the hands of a captain who had killed them all for the sake of his foolish pride.

"Damn you!" Andrew roared. "Damn you, you've killed us all!"

Tobias looked over at Andrew, wide-eyed with fear, unable to respond.

Tobias's gaze suddenly shifted, and with an inarticulate cry he raised his hand and pointed.

Andrew turned to look and saw that yet another mountain was rushing toward them, this one even higher than the last, the final strike to finish their doom.

But there was something else. Ahead of the wave a blinding maelstrom of light that appeared almost liquid in form was spreading out atop the wave like a shimmering cloud of white-hot heat.

The cloud swirled and boiled, coiling in upon itself, and then bursting out to twice its size. It coiled in for a moment, and then doubled yet again.

"What in the name of heaven-?" Andrew whispered, awestruck by the apparition. The intensity of the light was now so dazzling that he held up his hand to shield his eyes from the glare.

There seemed to be an unearthly calm, as if all sound, all wind and rain, were being drained off and they were now lost in a vacuum.

But still the wave continued to rise behind it, and then, to Andrew's amazement and terror, the wave simply disappeared as if it had fallen off the edge of the world.

Where a million tons of water had been but seconds before, now there was nothing but a gaping hole, filled by the strange pulsing light.

Suddenly the light started to coil in yet again, then in a blinding explosion it burst back out, washing over the ship.  
The deck gave way beneath Andrew's feet, and there was nothing but falling, a falling away into the core of light as if they were being cast down from the highest summit.  
There was no wind, no sound, only the falling and the pulse beat of the light about them; with the toll of exhaustion and the extraordinary events overtaking him, Andrew could only wonder if this was death after all.

* * *

Andrew awoke to the glare of the sun in his eyes. Groaning from the bruises that covered his body, he sat up and looked around.

Were they dead? Was this the afterworld? Or had they somehow survived? He came to his feet, and from the way the protest of bruised muscles coursed to his brain, he somehow felt he must be alive after all.

But how? Was the light a dream, a hallucination? All he could recall was that endless falling, the pulsing light and then the golden sphere that replaced it. He struggled with the memory. He seemed to recall awakening at some point, the sound of waves washing up on a shore surrounding him, an expanse of stars across a night sky above with no moon.

Improbable, he thought. The wave must have knocked him unconscious and somehow that damned captain had managed to save them after all.

The deck of the ship was a shambles. All three masts were down, with rigging, spars, and canvas littering the deck from stem to stern. In more than one place Andrew could see a lifeless form tangled in the wreckage. He'd have to get the men moving to start cleaning this up and disposing of the dead.

But where were they? Rubbing the back of his neck, which felt sunburned, he raised his eyes. They were aground, the shore a scant fifty yards away. The sandy beach before them quickly gave way to brush and low trees, and beyond he could see a series of low-lying hills.

Fumbling with his one hand, he managed to untie the rope about his waist.

It was warm; made warmer by the still-damp wool of his salt-encrusted uniform jacket that trapped beads of sweat he could feel coursing down his back.

They were alive, but where? Had they run all the way to Bermuda, or were they now wrecked somewhere along the coast? It had to be somewhere in the south. It could never be this warm in the north at this time of year.

Could it be the Carolinas? But no, he remembered that hills didn't come this close to the sea. Perhaps he was mistaken, but best not to take any chances-they'd have to assume they were in rebel territory till it was proved different.

"Colonel, you all right?"

Hans Schuder popped his head up from an open hatchway, and for the first time in memory, Andrew could see that his old sergeant had a look of total bewilderment on his face.

"All right, Hans. Yourself?"

"Damned if I know, sir," and the sergeant pulled himself up onto the deck. "I thought we'd gone under, and then there was this light. For a moment there I thought, Hans, old boy, it's the light of heaven and those damned stupid angels have made a mistake. And the next thing I know I wake up still alive."  
"What's it like below?" Andrew asked.

"Six hundred men puking their guts out. Ain't very pleasant, sir. Couple of the boys got killed from the battering, a number of broken limbs, and everyone with bruises. They're just starting to come to now."

"Well, go below and start getting them up on deck. There's work to be done."

"Right sir," and the sergeant disappeared back down the ladder.

"So you finally decided to get up."

Andrew groaned. He knew he shouldn't think it, but he found himself wishing that Tobias had been swept overboard.

"Where the hell are we?" Andrew asked, turning to face the captain, who was strolling down the deck toward him.

"South Carolina, I reckon. I'll shoot an angle on the sun and soon have it figured out."

"How did we get here?" Andrew asked, unable to hide his bewilderment.

Tobias hesitated for only a second.

"Good piloting, that's all," he replied, but Andrew could sense the doubt in his voice.

"And that strange light?"

"St. Elmo's fire, but I reckon a landlubber like you never heard of it."

"That wasn't St. Elmo's, Captain Tobias. It knocked all of us out and we woke up here, and I daresay you can't explain it more than I can." The - vision? - Andrew decided to keep to himself.

Tobias looked at him, trying to keep up the front, then turned away with a mumbled curse.

"We've been hulled. I'm going below to check the damage. I suggest we get started straightening this ship out, and I expect your men to help where need be."

Without waiting for a response, Tobias headed for the nearest hatchway and disappeared below.

Within minutes the deck was swarmed with men staggering up from below, most of them looking rather the worse for wear. As quickly as they came up, the various company commanders tried to sort them out and run a roll. Spotting Kathleen coming out from the captain's cabin, he hurried to her side.

"You all right, Miss O'Reilly?"

She looked up at him and smiled bleakly.

"Long as I live I'll never set foot on a ship again." The two of them laughed softly.

"Sergeant Schuder told me there've been some casualties. I'd deeply appreciate it if you would find Dr. Weiss and give him your assistance."

He continued to look at her closely, not wanting to admit that he had been concerned for her.

"Colonel, sir!"

Andrew looked up to a private standing atop the ship's railing and pointing off to shore. He came up to his side and looked at the boy, trying to remember his name.

The boy was nothing more than a mere slip of a lad, standing several inches below five and a half feet in height. His red hair, freckled face, and cheerful open expression gave him an innocent, almost childlike look. Andrew fished for his name, wondering how this lad had ever gotten past the recruiting sergeant. Then again, army recruiters were simply interested in warm bodies, nothing more. Suddenly the name came back to him.

"What is it, Hawthorne?"

Vincent looked at him for a moment, swelling a little with the fact that the colonel knew his name. That was another thing learned from Hans-always know their names, even though too often the knowing in the end would cause pain.

The boy was silent, still looking at him.

"Go on, son. What is it?"

"Oh, yes, sir. Sir, look over there, up near those rocks up there a couple of hundred yards up the beach. Seems like a cavalryman."

Andrew shaded his eyes and looked to where the boy was pointing. Definitely movement. A rebel scout?

Andrew looked around for Tobias, hoping he could get a spyglass, but the captain had yet to reappear.

"Son, do you know where my quarters are?"

"I think so, sir."

"Well, run quick-there's a single chest there. My name's on the top. Inside you'll find my field glasses. My sword's there as well. Now fetch them quick, lad."

"Yes sir!"

Obviously impressed with the responsibility given to him, Vincent jumped off the railing and raced below.

Andrew leaned over, still shading his eyes, and tried to get a better look at the lone horseman.

"Stay where you are, dammit," Andrew whispered. "Just don't move."

"Got something, colonel?"

Andrew turned to see Pat O'Donald coming up to join him.

He pointed to where the lone cavalryman sat, half concealed.

"How'd your men take the storm?" Andrew ventured, while waiting for Vincent to return.

"It's not the man, it's the horses," O'Donald said sadly. "We brought along enough for two guns and a cassion-the rest went on another ship. Most of them will have to be destroyed, or are already dead. I checked your horse, sir-he made it through all right."

The tearful remorse in the major's voice was rather a strange paradox coming from a man with his reputation.

"Your field glasses, sir," Hawthorne cried, near breathless as he raced up to Andrew's side.

Andrew brought them up and focused.

"Well, that is the damnedest," he whispered softly.

If this was reb militia, then they sure as hell were scraping the bottom. The man was dressed in a loose, buttonless brown shirt similar to a medieval doublet and baggier than normal trousers tucked into knee high riding boots. His riding tack looked wrong too-the bridle looked to be made of green silk. On his head was what looked like a baklava hood, and his right hand was gripping a –spear?

In front of Petersburg he saw deserters coming in almost daily, but at least they were still carrying guns.

Andrew handed the field glasses to O'Donald, who started to laugh.

"Faith and upon my soul! So there is the vaunted reb cavalry."

As if realizing he was being watched, the lone horseman turned his horse about, and kicking it into a trot he disappeared from view.

"Old men and children in the trenches, and now cavalry carrying spears, of all things. Won't those poor sots ever give up?"

Still laughing, he handed the field glasses back.

"He might look comical, major, but this could prove serious."

"And how so?"

"Those low hills there. Whatever it was you were laughing at could be going to get help right now. If they have a single section of artillery handy, all they need do is position themselves up there and shell us into surrender."

O'Donald fell silent and turned to look back down the deck.

"Too much of a cant here to deploy my guns to respond."

"Exactly," Andrew replied. "We'd better get my men ashore immediately and dig in. Get your men moving and bring those Napoleon field pieces of your topside. That lifeboat there should be enough to ferry them ashore."  
Andrew looked back to where Vincent still stood.  
"Son, you'd better help me on with that sword," he said softly.

* * *

Colonel, with the captain's compliments he wants you back aboard ship."

"Damn it all, what now?" Andrew turned on the messenger and saw that it was Bullfinch, the young ensign who had first led him aboard ship.

"I'm sorry, sir, but the captain did not confide that in me," the boy said meekly.

"Just give me a minute."

Andrew quickly surveyed the ground around him. One thing could certainly be said for the men of his regiment-six months of siege work in front of Petersburg had taught them how to dig. A triangular outworks forming a perimeter a hundred yards across at the base was already laid out in the dark loamy soil. It was already several feet deep on the two facing inland. O'Donald's men were finished with the first gun emplacement, commanding the apex of the line, and were now turning their attention to flanking position. One twelve-pound Napoleon had already been ferried out and emplaced. Looking back to the ship, he could see that the second weapon was being lowered over the side.

It must have been one hell of a wave that pushed them this far in, Andrew thought, as he looked at the damaged hull resting in less than ten feet of water. Besides that, from the ship's compass the shore they were facing toward was to the east with the water westward and he could recall no such coastline south of the Chesapeake.

"Keep the boys at it, Hans," Andrew shouted, and following the ensign, he waded into the waters of the ocean and accepted the helping hands of two sailors aboard the ship's launch. Seconds later they were alongside the Ogunquit, and with the help of a sling, Andrew was deposited on deck.

There was a look of anxiety on Tobias's face, something that Andrew actually found to be pleasing.

"What is it, captain?" Andrew asked coolly.

"Colonel, can you climb the rigging?" And so saying he pointed up to where the shrouds to the mainmast still clung to the shattered maintop, thirty feet above the deck.

"Lead the way."

This was something he would never have worried about once, but since the loss of his arm, Andrew found the prospect somewhat frightening-though he'd never admit it in front of this man.

Tobias scrambled up ahead of Andrew, almost as if taunting him. But all thought of insult died as he finally reached the shattered platform.

"One of my men spotted them. I thought you should take a look."

Fumbling for his field glasses, Andrew looked off to the shore.

Through a gap in the hills he saw that the cavalryman had returned, and had brought someone else with him. His equipment was much like that of the first horseman's, though his-doublet?-was forest-green instead of brown.

Andrew frowned. Seeing one cavalryman with that strangely primitive gear had been one thing, but it was another for him to come back not with the nearest reb forces but merely another one with similarly archaic gear. But from the way they were boldly approaching, they had to have some sort of power behind them.

"My glass has more power than your field glasses," Tobias offered.

It took a moment for Andrew to brace himself and focus the awkward telescope. He trained it upon the two cavalrymen, and his brow furrowed in confusion.

The two men had sun-darkened and weathered olive skin, their looks more of a Mediterranean cast than anything else. The one with the green doublet carried a long scar on his left cheek and another above his left eye. He also had a thin fringe of beard, mostly dark but streaked with silver on either side of his mouth.  
And behind them was a whole host of men dressed similar to the two horsemen, some mounted others on foot. Some had the same Mediterranean look as the first two while others were lighter haired and fairer. Most carried spears while a handful of the men on foot were armed with either crossbows or what looked like English longbows. The colonel leaned closer and noticed curious flanges just below the spearheads-like those on medieval boar spears. And that while all the men were armed they carried no swords or maces or other melee weapons except for long knives at their belts or those spears. And they wore no armor.

They're a hunting party, Andrew realized; not an army or war band. He hoped that might make dealing with them easier.

Andrew looked over to Tobias, who wordlessly returned his gaze.

"Captain-just where in God's earth are we?" Andrew whispered.

"...I don't know," Tobias finally admitted.

"Well, dammit, man, you'd better figure it out, because we sure as hell haven't landed in South Carolina!"

Andrew started back down from the maintop and jumped to the deck, Tobias following him.

"Get Dr. Weiss up here!" Andrew shouted, heading for the rail.

"What are you going to do, colonel?" Tobias asked.

Andrew turned on the captain, and stood quiet for a moment, thinking hard.

"Can you get this ship afloat again?" he finally asked.

"There's a hole down below decks big enough to ride a horse through!"

"Then figure something out, dammit!"

Andrew turned to see Emil coming up to join him. Together the two went into the lifeboat. Before it had even reached shore, Andrew leaped out, Emil puffing to keep up.

"What is it, colonel?"

"I want you to see what's coming," Andrew said. "Tell me if it looks like anything you've ever seen.

He already had a strange suspicion, but immediately pushed the thought aside; it was simply too absurd.

Racing ahead, all dignity forgotten for the moment, Andrew rushed to the entryway of the fortified position.

"Hans! Sound assembly!" Andrew shouted.

The clarion notes of the bugle and the long roll of the drum sounded. With the first note, Andrew felt a shiver run down his back. Suddenly the panic and confusion in

his heart stilled; crystal clarity of vision came over him.

The encampment exploded into action. Men raced to pull on their jackets, snatch up muskets, and sling on cartridge boxes.

Following the lead of the infantry, O'Donald called for the two pieces already ashore to be wheeled into their emplacement. Then he led his command to fall in by the men of the 35th.

Within seconds the old ritual, which they had acted out hundreds of times before, was played out: the ranks forming, muskets being grounded, the men dressing the line. Then when all were in place each company snapped to attention, their company commanders turning and coming to attention when all was in order.  
Andrew surveyed the line of five hundred men who were his, and the eighty men of O'Donald's command behind them. Every other time, it had been easy enough to explain what they were about to face; orders from above would tell him where the rebs were, and whether he was to hold or attack. There'd be a couple of comments about the honor of the regiment and the pride of being from Maine, and then they would move in.

But this was different. He paused, trying to collect his thoughts. The men started to look uneasily at each other.

There was no brigadier above him now, or regiments falling in to either flank. This time he was alone, just as at Gettysburg, and the decision was his.

"Uncase the colors!" Andrew shouted.

A stir went down the line as the standard-bearers lowered their staffs. Men to either side rushed out to pull off the flag casings. In the faint afternoon breeze the blue flag of Maine snapped out. It was followed seconds later by the shot-torn national standard; emblazoned upon its stripes in gold letters were the names of a dozen hard-fought actions which the regiment had survived with honor.

The men looked to each other, some eagerly, others pale with nervousness; uncasing the colors usually meant action was in front of them.

"Look to those colors, boys!" Andrew shouted, and as one each man's gaze turned to the standards they had followed across countless fields of action.  
Andrew knew it was a rhetorical flourish, but he had to start somewhere, and for the men of his regiment-of any regiment-the shot-torn flags were symbols of pride and honor.

"There is a lot I cannot explain to you right now," Andrew continued. "All I ask is that you obey my commands. Just trust me, lads, as you have on every field of action. Follow my orders, and I'll see all of us through this."

He fell silent. This wasn't the typical flag, Maine, and the Union speech. He sensed their uneasiness, but there wasn't time to explain further.

"Companies C through F, deploy to the east wall. H through K, to the west wall. I want A and B, with the colors, in reserve in the center. Major O'Donald! To me, please! Now fall into position, boys!"

The encampment became a wild explosion of movement as the formation broke and men ran to their positions.

"What is it, colonel?" Pat said, coming up to join him.

"Look, Pat, I can't explain the situation now- I still don't understand it myself. We'll just have to wait and see. Let's go up to your emplacement."

The two commanders, trying to appear outwardly calm, strode across the encampment area. They reached the battery where O'Donald's twelve-pound brass Napoleons were deployed.

"Here they come!" came a shout from an excited private down the line.

The small band crested the hill above the beach; they paused visibly as they saw the encampment with its battle-ready men at its walls below, then the older leading horseman in the green doublet rode forward cautiously, one hand up with palm outward, the other on the reins on his horse as he guided it.

"One of them coming up, sir," Hans said, now standing beside Andrew, which he always did when there was the scent of battle in the air.

A loud murmur started to break out in the ranks, men crying out in confusion at the sight of the horseman before them.

"You're the history professor," Emil said, coming up to join the three commanders, "so please help me retain my sanity and tell me who that is."

"I was hoping you would know," Andrew replied. "We couldn't have been blown all the way to Arabia, and they look European, not black or eastern."

"Well, what he's carrying looks straight out of the Middle Ages to me," Emil replied. "Damn it all, look at those weapons! Those things are museum pieces!"

"I know, doctor," Andrew murmured, "I know."

Just what in hell was he facing? He still couldn't figure it out. For the entire world he felt as if he were an army straight out of the tenth or eleventh century.

No, not an army, Keane reminded himself. A hunting party.

The horseman stopped well within arrow range of his companions and waited, arms folded across his chest.

"Hans, just cock that carbine of yours and keep an eye on him."

Andrew climbed atop the gun emplacement and slid down the other side. The horseman drew closer. This was like something straight out of a Sir Walter Scott novel, he thought. Andrew put up his own hand with palm out. The horseman returned the gesture and advanced until he was about ten feet from him, then stopped, saying something that had to mean, "This is close enough." He studied Andrew and the encampment with frank curiosity.

The soldier asked something in some foreign tongue.

Confused, Andrew could only shake his head.

"I am Colonel Keane of the 35th Maine Volunteers, of the United States Army."

Plainly not understanding, the hunter cried out something in the same language again, only louder and more demanding. The colonel shook his head and spread his one hand. "I'm sorry, but I'm afraid we don't understand your language or know where we are."

The confusion only seemed to irritate the other man something further, and Keane could feel the tension mounting between them-then the twang of a bow snapped, followed by the unmistakable boom of a Springfield.

"Goddamit!" Andrew cried as he automatically dove for the ground. Looking forward, he saw the strangers stare behind him and one of the crossbowmen had dropped his weapon and was kneeling on the ground, clutching at his shoulder.

Thinking quickly, the colonel bellowed, "Companies A & B, over their heads, fire!" The two companies did so, and as he'd hoped, the strange host had panicked, running for the woods as the ones on horseback were struggling to control their mounts while they fled. The man in the green doublet likewise had fled, helping the one in his party who'd been shot to his feet and make for the trees.  
Andrew got to his feet-no easy feat, given his one arm-and turning back to his men saw Chris Sadler of Company A holding his brother Brian, who had a crossbow bolt in his side.

"Private Sadler!" Letting one of the other men support his brother, Chris snapped to attention. "Was it you who fired that shot?"

"That man shot my brother," the young private retorted, then added, "sir."

"I'm not blaming you," Andrew said then added, "but that doesn't make our situation any better. O'Donald!"

"Yes, Colonel darling?" the red-haired Irish major said.

"Are your Napoleons loaded with solid shot?" Seeing the major nod, Keane went on, "I want you to fire at those trees," he indicated the forest into which the hunters were retreating. "Aim far to their sides-I want those strangers frightened, not dead."

Nodding again, Pat shouted to his men, "You heard the colonel! Number one, fire!" A cannon boomed and tree several yards to the left of the retreating party.

"Number two, fire!" Another tree fell again, this time to the right.

Colonel Keane held up his hand. "That'll be enough." Looking through his field glasses he could see the last of the hunting party vanishing into the woods. He handed the glasses to O'Donald. "Have a look."

A big smile appeared underneath the major's walrus mustache. "Look at them boyos run!" he cackled in delight. Then his face sobered. "What will happen next?"  
"That, I'm afraid," Andrew said dolefully, "will be up to them." Even as he pondered the question, the other, larger one was looming in the back of his mind.

Just where the hell where they?

EDDARD

Robert Baratheon, the first of his name, King of the Andals, the Royhnar, and First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, and Protector of the Realm, roared loud enough to shake the trees, "Dammit Ned, what is the meaning of this?!"

Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, and most recently, Hand of the King, took several deep breathes as he tried to think. His old friend was in another one of his rages, and he knew it would subside like they always did. "If I knew, Your Grace, I would tell you." He had sent men back to Winterfell, to bring back both the soldiers Robert had brought on his journey here and his own retainers.

"When the others arrive, we must send them forth and kill these strangers!" Crown Prince Joffrey shouted. Although he had the green eyes, golden hair, and overall features of his Lannister mother Queen Cersei the young prince was showing his father's fiery impetuosity. To his side his sworn shield Sandor Clegane, known as the Hound, stood silently, his face half ruined by fire as a child expressionless.

"Agreed." Ser Bryain Sterling spoke up. The young knight from the small army that had accompanied the royal family from King's Landing all the way to Winterfell had a gleaming look in his eyes. Eddard did not like that look; he's seen such before in those of fanatical septons who thought the Old Gods of the Forest he and other men of the North prayed to were demons and evil spirits. "I smelled the stink of the smoke from these bluecoats' metal rods; it was the smoke of the fires that torment the fallen in the Seven Hells. The Lord of the Seven Hells sent them here to destroy us, if we do not destroy them first."

"Well said!' the Prince replied cheerfully. Off to the side, Eddard's own eldest son Rob simply stood, looking at his father inquisitively. Jon Snow was right beside him, carefully staying in the shadows, so the King would not notice him, as silent as the Hound. "We will overwhelm these fiends so hard they'll scarce know what hit them!"

"And how many of our men would die?" Eddard looked sternly at the Prince and the knight. "You saw what that thunder-rod did to Woron over there." He indicated the wounded crossbowman who was lying at the foot of a tree, dulled by milk of the poppy while Maester Jaims was cutting at his shoulder and probing the wound with a pair of forceps.

"Those other rods all pointed at us didn't do anything but make a lot of smoke and noise," Joffrey sneered.

And yet you fled with the rest, Lord Stark thought sourly. Though he had agreed shortly after the King's arrival to betroth his eldest daughter Sansa to the prince he now wondered if he made the decision too hastily. What he'd seen of the prince so far showed Robert's eldest son to be reckless, self-centered, and stubborn. He's only a boy, Eddard reminded himself wistfully. He has time to change. "They were pointed over our heads," he said carefully, taking care not to insult the heir to the Iron Throne. "Many of you saw that as well, right before the smoke and thunder." Several of the men nodded. "And those large thunder-makers that move on wheels-look what they did to those trees, and think what they could do to men.

"Yet although they likely could have killed us all, or at least a great many of us they did not. As I said before, they deliberately pointed those thunder-makers at the tree to our side. That tells me that they merely wanted to frighten us and were trying to avoid bloodshed." He let that hang in the air as he saw all the hunting party was chewing on his words. King Robert himself looked pained; Ned's old friend had always been more a man of action than thought.

CLUNK. The sound of metal dropping against metal broke the silence, and Maester Jaims stood up over his patient. Eddard, Robert, and several others walked over to him. "How is he?"

"He's very fortunate." Jaims was a young Maester, only recently having completed his chain. He had accompanied the royal party up North from King's Landing to Winterfell mainly because his youth made him one of few maesters suited for the rigors of a long journey. Yet from what little Eddard knew of him he had already gained an enviable reputation as both a healer and a scholar. "This caused the wound," Jaims continued as he held out a metal bowel. Inside was piece of lead about the size of the last joint of Ned's thumb that although deformed looked as if it had been shaped like a conical helmet. "Somehow it had struck Woron between his left lung and shoulder with force greater than a knight's lance on a horse at full gallop. Had it hit his lung he would have died; a little higher and I would have needed to amputate. I've washed his wound with wine and dressed it as best I could; barring infection he should have full use of his arm again in less than a month."  
The poppy juice had not entirely dulled Woron's senses. "Feels like-I was struck by the Smith's hammer," the crossbowman said wearily.

 _You deserve it for firing your crossbow like that_. Ned sighed; he would reprimand the crossbowman later when he had full use of his senses.

A faint rustle came from the trees, and two men dressed in common foresters' clothes emerged, one of them carrying a tightly wrapped bundle in his arms. They walked over to the king and Hand and bowed low.

After rising, the one holding the bundle presented it to Ned. "We went to where the bluecoats' had smashed the trees," he said as he handed the bundle to Ned. "We found this, in deep crater. Several of the smaller trees had actually been uprooted."

Ned took the bundle and unwrapped it to find a round iron ball, slightly warm to the touch. "It was red hot when we found it," the man said then added, "the only way we could touch it was by wrapping our cloaks around it. There's another one in the other cluster these blue bugger blasted down but it was buried too deep."

Ned nodded. "You did good work, both of you. Did any of the strangers spot you?"

The other man shook his head. "None that I could tell m'lord. Looked t'me like they was diggin' in, as if expecting an attack from us."

"Good," Ned looked back at the rest of his companions. "That tells me that whatever else, these people are not here to attack us. If there was just some way we could speak to them, we could find out who they are, how they came here, and what they're here for."

Uncharacteristically, King Robert had been quiet the whole time. The flesh he'd put on in the years sitting on the Iron Throne made his face surprisingly well suited to sober consideration. He finally spoke "Where's that good-brother of mine?"

"Ser Jaime is back at Winterfell, Your Grace, keeping the Queen his sister company," one of Robert's men spoke up.

"Not him," Robert growled. "The Imp. He came with us on this little hunting party. Now where is he?"

"You asked for me, Your Grace?" Almost as mysteriously as the blue-coated strangers, Tyrian Lannister appeared among the hunters. He was a dwarf, barely taller than Eddard Stark's youngest son Rickon, with a strange mop of blond and black hair on top of his head and mismatched green and black eyes in his rather ugly face. He was also said to be extremely clever, with a mind as sharp as a sword of Valyrian steel, and a tongue even sharper.

Robert looked down at Tyrian "How many languages do you know?"

Tyrian paused. "well, Your Grace I know high Valyrian well enough to read it fluently, and speak with anyone from one of the Free Cities of Essos, despite the maddening differences in dialect, and also learned enough of the language of the summer isle from whores that hale from there. I also can read and write in Old Ghiscari, although no one can speak it anymore-,"

"Do you think you can learn the bluecoats' language?"

"Well, I might if-," Tyrian's voice trailed off as he looked up at Robert. "You're sending me to their camp, aren't you?"  
Robert nodded, the multiple chins underneath his thick black beard noticeably wobbling. "Indeed. As soon as the Hand's men and mine arrive. Go among them, learn their language. Find what you can about them."

"Your Grace, why would you send HIM?" Ser Bryain looked a Tyrian with a glare of contempt. "Far better a knight anointed in a sept and blessed with the Seven oils to confront-,"

"Because they'd see you as a threat, you blasted oaf," the king shot back. "The Hand said it best; with weapons like they've got it's best not to antagonize them more than necessary. And who would possibly feel threatened by the Imp?" Nearly all the men in the hunting party, save for the humorless Hound, laughed at Robert's jape-even Tyrion, although the laughter did not quite reach his eyes. "And he's a very gifted speaker."

"If I were truly gifted, I would have been able to talk you out of sending me." Tyrion said that cheerfully yet Eddard couldn't help but notice the iron edge he put in his voice. "But very well, since Your Grace commands I must obey. When do I depart?"

"As soon as the Hand's men and the other's get here, Imp," King Robert said dryly. "We'll keep watch at the edge of the woods in case something happens, but hopefully things will go smoothly enough."

It was several hours before soldiers clad in armor arrived, the light of day turning to dust shining brightly off of their armor. Ser Roderick, the Master of Arms got down from his horse. After bowing to the king, he turned to Eddard. "My Lord, I have grave news."

"What is it?" Ned braced himself; he'd had far too many surprises as of late.

"It's about your son Bran….."

VINCENT

Nothing in Vincent Hawthorne's sheltered life in a Quaker community had prepared him for his first day in the army. Before his world had consisted mainly or farm-work, classes at the Oak Grove school, and for the past two years apprenticing for a clockmaker. On his very first day in army camp he saw smoking, drinking of intoxicating beverages, card playing, heard foul words in various combinations that even now still made his ears red, and even prostitutes, which the men called hookers, supposedly after the hard fighting General Hooker, who was often seen with such ladies of the evening.

He learned to take it all in stride, or at least ignore it as much as he ignored the catcalls of the men who jeered him for refusing to partake in such activities. But compared to what happened today, that strange encounter with the men on the hill, made those experiences seem like picnic after Meeting.

He had been posted to picket duty, with Private Dale Hinsen several yards away. Vincent didn't like the man; a few years older than Hawthorne himself Hinsen was in his opinion one of the worst of the worst in the regiment. Not because he drank, gambled, whored, or swore-Vincent had known others who did those things but they'd never shirked duty or tried to desert more than once. Dale Hinson also frequently complained about having the runs when Hawthorne knew he didn't, stole from the other soldiers, and once even tried to pin one of his thefts on Vincent. The young Quaker would gladly have stood guard with anyone else, no matter how foul mouthed or much they drank-as long as it wasn't on duty.

The evening sky quickly darkened and the stars came out. Already Vincent could tell something was wrong. Where was the Little Dipper, Sagittarius, Andromeda, Perseus or Cassiopeia? They looked wrong too-They were brighter than normal and seemed hung lower in the sky. Listening back at the camp, the private heard Sargent Barry say they must be somewhere below the equator, which got him several sniggers from the Ogunquit's sailors.

Absently, Vincent touched the left breast pocket on his shell jacket where he kept a pocket volume of a Bible. "Though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I will fear no evil, for though art with me," he whispered. Yet the 4th verse of the 23rd Psalm did little ease his nervousness.

Vincent had wrestled long and hard with his conscious when he chose to enlist in the Northern Army. Not only had he been taught that killing another was the greatest sin, he had committed the sin of lying about his age, for he was really a month shy of his 17th birthday. Yet he felt the stain of slavery on his country's honor was something he had to help erase, even if it meant committing those sins. However, he hoped he'd never know if a shot he fired killed a Rebel soldier.

But far as Vincent could see, these people weren't rebs. If they charged the camp in the morning, could he shoot them?

Vincent was thinking these troubling thoughts when all of a sudden, he heard a rustle from the nearby bushes. "Stop!" he cried, pointing his rifle where he heard the sound. "Come out and show yourself!"

Slowly a small shape emerged from one of the bushes and walked slowly towards Vincent. He blinked twice. Was this a child? As the small profile came into the moonlight and he could make out it's features, Vincent realized no, this was a man. He remembered the time when he was eight and a circus came to New Vassalboro; his uncle took him to the show. There he saw among other things Vincent saw people who were plainly adults, but barely larger than he had been. This was a dwarf.

"Stay right there," Vincent said, keeping the muzzle of his rifle on the middle of the dwarf's torso. As if understanding, the little man stood still with his hands in the air. "Sergeant Barry!

"What is it, Private Hawthorne?" The sergeant came up from the camp, along with two privates carrying muskets.

Vincent kept his gun on the dwarf. "I've got one of them, Sergeant!"

Barry and the two privates came up to Vincent. "Well, don't that beat all?" the shorter private said when he saw the dwarf. "Did we crash down on a circus?"

"For that, Richards," snapped Barry, "you're taking Private Hawthorne's place. Ignoring Richards's groan, the sergeant looked at Vincent. "You take the prisoner to the Colonel's tent."

Nodding, Vincent motioned with his rifle for the dwarf to follow him. As they walked towards where Colonel Keane had his tent pitched, Vincent asked "What's your name. Mine's Vincent."

The dwarf stared blankly; Vincent cursed himself for a fool. Of course, he should have remembered from earlier, these people didn't speak English.

Taking a different approach, Vincent tapped himself on the chest. "Vincent. Vincent Hawthorne." He then pointed at the dwarf.

Seeming to understand, the dwarf tapped his own chest. "Tyrion. Tyrion Lannister."

End of Chapter One.

Okay. If any of you reader saw me post this story earlier, I have some explaining to do. I had computer trouble after posting the chapter the first time, but was unable to update. Then my life got in the way of writing, and so I finally decided to take the story down.

But lately I've had more spare time and so I've decided to give it another try. Hopeful I will be able to update the story this time.

To any new readers, if you haven't read the Lost Regiment series I suggest you do so. It is an excellent science fiction series written in the early nineties by William R Forstchen and considered by many to be a foreunner of steampunk. doesn't have a section for it and there is very little actual fanfiction written on the series but it is very good.

Send in reviews; I would especially like suggestions for how you think the story should go. And here's one small spoiler-because of this, neither Jon nor Tyrion will soon be going to the Wall-but some other people will.


	2. Chapter 2

Game of Thrones and all related characters are the property of HBO and George R. R. Martin. The Lost Regiment series and characters likewise belong to William R. Forstchen and ROC publishing. No money is being made from their use in this work of fanfiction.

ANDREW

"Tyrion." The dwarf tapped his chest. "Tyrion Lannister."

"I guess that's his name," Emil Weiss said as he glanced from the dwarf to Andrew. It was close to midnight; the doctor, the dwarf, and the colonel were seated at a small camp table just outside of Andrew's tent, two oil lamps providing light. Major O' Donald and Captain Cromwell were sitting at an adjacent table along with Kathleen and Father Casmir, the 44th's chaplain, also lit up by lamps.

"I suppose," Andrew said. "Now if only we could figure out some way to talk with him." He looked at Tyrian, and pointed at himself. "Keane."

"Keane," Tyrion repeated, although coming out of his mouth it sounded like KEE-ANN. Not pressing the issue, Andrew simply nodded.

Dr. Weiss then pointed at himself and gave his own name. Tyrian repeated the doctor's name as well. O' Donald, Cromwell, Kathleen, and Father Casmir each gave their names, and Tyrion repeated them in turn.

Pleased with the progress they'd made so far, Andrew held up a finger. "One," he said, then flipped up the next. "Two. Three. Four. Five." He continued all the way to ten, adding a finger with each number. Tyrion repeated the gesture, sounding off each number in English, then holding up his fingers again, this time saying the numbers in what Andrew guess was his native language.

Stopping, Tyrion held up his hands and circled around. "Westeros."

"Does he mean the name of the country we're in?" O'Donald inquired.

"It could be." Andrew repeated the word "Westeros?"

Tyrion nodded. "Westeros," then he held up seven fingers. "Seven. Westeros."

"What the devil does he mean?" demanded Cromwell. He'd been sulking for most of the meeting, evidently not happy about being on land instead of huddled into the Ogunquit where he felt it would be safer.

"Seven probably has some significance with these people. He looked back at Tyrion. "Seven? Westeros?"

With another nod, Tyrion smiled. "Seven. Westeros."

An inquisitive look came over the dwarf's engagingly ugly face as he pointed at Keane, Weiss, O'Donald, Kathleen, then around the camp to the soldiers lounging, smoking, or reading next to oil lamps. Understanding, Keane said, "Yankees."

Tyrion slowly sounded out the word, then nodded. He next picked up a small envelope open Keane had lying on the table. "Knife," Keane said, doing his best to keep things at simple basics.

Tyrian nodded, but instead of saying anything touched a napkin on the table, then walked over to Cromwell, pointed at his white cap, then walked to where the regimental standards were erected nearby. Carefully pulling on the national flag, he touched one of its white stripes.

"What's he trying to say?" Kathleen asked.

"I think," said Emil, "he's indicating the color." Carefully he said, "White."

"White Knife," murmured Andrew. "White Knife." Next the dwarfed pointed at the river where the Ogunquit was beached.

"Ship? Water?" Cromwell's eyes lit up, "River! White knife must be the name of the river we washed up at."

"That's as good a guess as any," said Father Casmir.

Suddenly Andrew looked up at the sky, and saw how the stars, unfamiliar was they were have moved. "It's getting late," he said. "We'll all do better in the morning, after a good night sleep. He looked up to where two privates were standing nearby. "Daniels, Jefferson," he said, "take our guest over to that spare tent we have set up for him. Make sure he's comfortable and keep guard until you're relieved." Nodding, the two men motioned with their rifles and Tyrian followed them.

Andrew leaned back in his chair as he watched the others go back to their own tents. It took him a moment to notice that Emil was still sitting with him.

"Just where in heaven are we?" Andrew asked.

The doctor smiled sadly and shook his head.

"I don't know how or why," he replied, his voice carrying a slight sense of awe. "But I think wherever our war is, it's not here."

"Seems like something out of the tenth, maybe eleventh century, I'd venture," Andrew said, as if to himself. "But how, dammit? How?"

Emil reached up and laid his hand on Andrew's shoulder.

"That is not your concern, if I might be so bold," Emil said sharply.

"And what does that mean?" Andrew replied, somewhat irritated by the doctor's tone.

"Andrew, you're pondering an impossible. Chances are we'll never know the how of it, or the why. Your job now is to lead. To find a way for us to survive here. If an answer ever comes, we'll cross that then. But we can't stay here surrounded forever. For the time being we must find a place to live."

Emil stopped for a moment, and with a smile reached into his tunic and pulled out a flask and offered it.

Without comment Andrew uncorked it and took a long pull.

"Somehow we've got to make an accommodation with these people. You no longer command a regiment-you're the general in charge, and a diplomat now as well."

"So you're telling me to stop worrying and do my job, is that it?" Andrew said coldly.

"Just that you historian types want to know all the answers," Emil responded with a chuckle.

Andrew turned away for a moment. He knew that the doctor was right. The name of this country, Westeros, was utterly unfamiliar. And there was nowhere on earth that people spoke that language or wielded weapons like the ones these-Westerosi?-not since the Middle Ages at least.

Just what was he going to do?

"Worry about keeping us alive," Emil said softly as if reading his thoughts. "Let me spend my time figuring out the hows and whys of it all."

Andrew turned back to the doctor and smiled.

"Let's go to sleep for now," Andrew said, "Tomorrow we'll talk some more with Tyrion," and capping the bottle he tossed it back to the doctor.

* * *

Tyrion

"I Keane, go with men and you. To Winterfell. See your king Robert. And Eddard. Eddard Stark."

At least, that's what Tyrion thought he heard the one-armed man say. Odd how the common tongue sounded from these strangers. _Of course, I probably sound just as strange to them when I try to speak their language._

Nodding, Tyrion replied in the bluecoats' tongue, "Yes, I send-," he mimed riding a horse and Keane supplied the word _messenger,_ "-messenger to Winterfell. Tell King Robert and Eddard Stark you come. Talk friendship, yes?" Keane looked down at Tyrion from behind the lenses held by a wire frame over his eyes-Tyrion figured they must aid with vision, the way those with bad eyesight used handheld lenses to read to study maps-and gave an enormous smile.

Idly, Tyrion looked about the campsite. Of to the right, he could see their healer and his female assistant tending to the bluecoat that the crossbowman had shot. He seemed to be recovering well; Tyrion could see he'd have full use of his arm soon. A little further and he could see the man called Casmir in in ornate robes that reminded the dwarf of a septon's, leading O'Donald and another group of men in what looked like a prayer service. Off to Casmir's right was a metal effigy that looked like a man crucified in the manner of the Meereenese.

 _The Ironborn worship a Drowned God,_ Tyrion thought. _Perhaps these people worship a Crucified God._

Already he had learned more of their language than he was letting on. Funny, while the words were very different, the way they were arrange was much the same manner as the common tongue, much more so than any of the other languages Tyrion knew.

But what really struck Tyrion was just how different these strangers, these _Yankees_ were.

He had watched them drill and was impressed by their discipline. They could be lying about casually, engaged in daily camp activity and with but a word Keane or another of the sword-bearing officers, they would line up like and move in unison like the gears of a catapult or the spokes of a water wheel. Another word and half a hundred knives would be snapped out and attached to the ends of their fire rods-rifles, they were called-to be used as if they were spears. Another word, they would load their rifles, walk over to a mound of dirt what had been designated as their practice range, and one by one, discharge their weapons.

Tyrion had seen similar discipline in other soldiers, especially his own father's household troops. But Tyrion could not help but notice the odd familiarity that seemed to exist between the officers and the men. Despite their discipline, when not drilling or on duty they would speak to each other almost as if they were social equals, the common soldiers even looking the officers in the eye, even arguing with them. And most of the officers showed none of the arrogance that knights and highborn lords often showed to common soldiers; even the one armed leader would drink and chat with one of the men and seemed to know all of their names.

And that wasn't the most startling thing. The greatest peculiarity about the Yankees apart from their weapons was that it seemed almost every one of them, from the one armed leader, to the lowliest sailor under the command of Cromwell, could _read._

When Tyrion saw Keane sitting in that chair he kept in front of his tent, or some of the other leader he took no special notice; those in authority were expected to be literate. And when he saw Vincent Hawthorne, the soldier who took him into the camp, sitting down and reading from a small book, he blinked, and then shrugged; literate smallfolk in Westeros were rare but not unheard of. But then he saw others, like Vincent's friend Bill Webster, and another he learned was called Chuck Ferguson, also reading, and countless other Yankees. And not only did they read, many of them were also writing into what looked like personal journals.

And when Tyrion looked into one of their books the small block characters looked unbelievably tiny but still legible. What manner of scribe could write with such precision? What land existed where literacy was so common?

Turning his mind back to the present, Tyrion saw Keane reach into his jacket, and took out something that looked similar to the spheroid canteens the Yankees carried only smaller and square. Seeing the dwarf's curiosity, Keene removed the stopper with his teeth, and then took a short swig. "Gin," he said as he handed the object to Tyrion.

Tyrion took square metal body, gave sniff, took a short pull, then a longer one. "Gin," he said with a grin. "Good."

"Gift. For Tyrion. How we say thanks."

Tyrian smiled and nod. "Now me go, send message." And with that, Tyrion toddled over to the edge of the woods where the King's and Lord Stark's men had sat up a camp of their own where they watched over the bluecoats.

Tyrion tucked the flask into his doublet. The gin, whatever it was, certainly seemed more potent any wine or ale he'd had. Perhaps he should advise Keane to off some to Robert; few things could make Robert Baratheon happier than a new way to get drunk-unless these strangers also knew some way to bottle a whore. Tyrion gave a short laugh, if the Yankees knew that one they'd be richer than his father Tywin.

The dwarf looked back at their camp. Strange people, these bluecoats, these Yankees. Strange, but he liked them.

* * *

EDDARD

"Lord Stark." Ned Stark looked up from where he was sitting in the Godswood. He had been praying to the gods for the sake of his son Bran. The very day he had gone hunting with Robert and his party, Bran had been climbing the old abandoned tower in the courtyard and had fallen. Maester Luwin and Maester Jaims had both done all they could for him, but told Eddard if his second son ever woke, he would never walk again.

"What is it?" Ned knew the matter had to be important; his servants knew him well enough not to interrupt his prayers with trivial matters.

"A messenger has arrived from the camp by the White Knife," the servant said. "He brings word from Lord Tyrion about the bluecoats; he's waiting in your solar."

"That is indeed important." The lord of Winterfell rose to his feet. "Get word to the King, to Prince Joffrey, Robb, and Maester Luwin, and tell them to meet with me in the solar." Ned paused then added, "Have Maester Jaims

He entered the castle and, before walking towards the solar, climbed up the stairs to Bran's bedchamber,

His wife Catelyn was sitting by their son's bed. "How is he, Cat?"

"No change," his wife said quietly, as he put her arm around her. She looked her husband in the eyes and Ned could see the tears welling up in them.

"Oh Ned," Catelyn sobbed. "This is my fault."

"How could it be?" Ned Stark's was a good woman; patient, strict with their children without being abusive, kind but firm and resolute. Ned couldn't have asked for a better wife

But where the children were concerned, in times like this, she could be wildly, emotionally erratic. "When you told me that you planned on bringing him, along with Sansa and Arya to King's Landing, and that he wanted to go I couldn't bear it. I prayed to the Seven that night, that there would be some way for him to stay-and see how they answered my prayer."

Eddard held his wife close as she wept on his shoulder. "No, No Cat, don't say that. It was mishap. The maesters say he has a good chance to wake; as long as he is alive there is hope." If anything Ned wanted to blame the gods-the Old Gods that he worshipped, the seven New Gods his wife and most others from the lands south of the Neck followed or whatever gods there were. But he could not; since he was a boy he was told the gods had a reason for allowing whatever happened. It was not for a mere mortal like him to question them.

"Lord Stark." The servant who spoke to him earlier now poked his head through the door. "Lord Stark, the King, the Prince, Maester Lewin and Maester Jaims are in the solar like you requested; they only wait for you."

"Thank you, Jaish," Eddard said. Seeing his wife had calmed down, he said, "I need to go; I have important matters to attend." Cat nodded; she understood that duty came before private matters, even grief. "Thank you. I'll come back here when I'm done talking with the messenger."

Ned followed Jaish down the hallway to the solar; his son, the prince, and the two maesters were standing to the wall. Robert was seated in one the two chairs in the room. In his hand was a winecup, yet so far his eyes did not look glazed.

Eddard sat down in the chair next to Robert. "Come in," he said to the door where he knew the man was waiting.

The messenger entered the solar. "Your Grace," he said, bowing his head to Robert. "Lord Hand." He was one of Robert's men; a lean dark-haired man of medium height, whose dark hair and accent indicated he was of Dornish stock. "I bring word from Lord Tyrion."

Robert took a sip from his winecup. "Has he spoken with those bluecoats?"

"He has, Your Grace," the messenger said. "He has been with them for nearly a week, and says that he has learned enough of their language that he may do simple translations for you."

Eddard spoke up. "What has he learned about them?"

"They call themselves 'Yankees,' Lord Hand," the messenger replied, "and from what the King's good-brother told me, they don't know where they are or how they got here. It seems they had been fighting in a war in their own country, when the ship that was carrying them ran into a storm that somehow blew them here. That's the most he has been able to learn from them; he would need to learn more of their language to know more details.

Robert leaned closer. "You said the Imp told you they wanted to come here to Winterfell?"

The messenger nodded. "Indeed Your Grace. Their leader, who Tyrion says goes by the name 'Keane,' has expressed a willingness to meet with you. It seems they have no means of returning to their home and they are willing to take service with you."

"To take service…" Robert spoke quietly then his voice trailed off.

Seeing his friend speechless, Eddard said, "This-Keane, you said his name is-would he be bringing men with him?"

Again the messenger nodded. "He will of course bring with him the guards that his honor demands. Lord Tyrion also said he wishes to bring his men's healer, who is a trusted adviser and two others as well."

At last Robert seemed to find his voice. "Go on then," the king said. "Go back and tell my good-brother to bring these-Yankees-here. Go on, get to it!"

After the messenger left the room, Eddard motioned to Robb. "Go to Valon, and help him prepare proper accommodations for our new guests." He had reservations; Roberts' own party was starting to put a strain on Winterfell's storehouses. But he couldn't simply ignore these newcomers either; he and the King would have to treat with them.

After Robb left the room, Joffrey looked at Robert. "Father, you can't mean to seriously take on these—people-as bannermen?"

"And why not, boy?" King asked, a growl underlying his tone. "You were there; you saw the power their weapons have."

"Which they could turn against you!" Joffrey voice cracked as he spoke. "Kill them, and we can take their fire-rods and fire logs on wheels and figure out how they work. We can-!"

"I will not be counseled on war by a child who just learned how piss in the pot!" Robert roared at his son. "Now since you've obviously nothing intelligent to say, get out of here!"

Taken aback by his father's outburst, the prince took several steps backwards, the turned and ran out the door.

"Boy will go crying to his mother, most like," Robert muttered. "And I'll be hearing it from Cersei probably all the way back to King's Landing."

"He needed to hear it," Ned took a short breath then went on, "If he is to be King he needs to learn that not everything can be fixed with brute force." He paused then added, "He's young, impulsive-reminds me of a lad I met in the Eyrie."

Robert grinned "I wasn't that bad, was I?"

 _No,_ Ned thought. Robert when young had been impulsive and eager to fight-but even the younger Robert, on a chance encounter, would not have been so eager to massacre a group of strangers.

Deciding to change the subject, Ned said, "Perhaps when we get to the King's Landing it might be good to start grooming him for when the time comes."

"Maybe," Robert said. "But how can I Ned?" The King put his winecup to his lips and drank until it was empty. "How can I groom him to rule, when I wasn't properly groomed to rule myself?"

Eddard had no good answer for that.

* * *

Vincent

"All right then, boys, look sharp now, the colonel's expecting you to act like the soldiers you are. You men of Companies A and B have been selected for this-now live up to it."

Vincent tried to push his narrow chest out even further as Sergeant Schuder stopped in front of him, gazed for a moment, and then with a snort of disgust continued down the line.

Vincent breathed a sigh of relief. For some reason the colonel no longer terrified him-in many ways he looked on his one-armed commander as a father-but Schuder was more like the old schoolmaster at Oak Grove, ready to explode with Old Testament wrath at the slightest provocation.

From the corner of his eye Vincent saw Keane approaching, with Dr. Weiss, and Tyrion riding alongside, with Major O'Donald and Captain Cromwell ascending on horses borrowed from the soldiers who had been watching them.

Vincent looked at the dwarf in puzzlement. He expected Tyrion to ride in a wagon or on a pony but instead he was on a normal sized horse and seemed to handle it quite well. The saddle looked different from the one of the armored men or the mounts borrowed for Cromwell or O'Donald. Vincent wonder if it was a special saddle designed to accommodate Tyrion's own unique stature.

Keane reared his mount up in front of the company and looked the ranks over.

"All right then, lads," Keane said softly, as if addressing a group of friends about to embark on an afternoon stroll.

"Tyrion here," and he pointed to the dwarf, "indicates we can make a peaceful arrangement with these people. I'm trusting all of you to do your duty. I want these people to see the type of soldiers we are. But one mistake and it could go badly for the lot of us. I expect this to go smoothly, and it's important we don't show the slightest trace of fear. So look and act like soldiers, no matter what you see. If things should turn ugly, you are to fire only on my command, or Sergeant Schuder's. Any questions?"

"Colonel, just where in hell are we?" Vincent could tell by the defiant tone that it was Jim Hinsen.

Keane reined his mount around and came up to stand directly in front of Hinsen. With a cold look, the colonel stared down at the private.

"That is what we are going to find out, private," he said sharply. "Let me worry about that. You're new to this regiment, private, so I'll let it pass this time. But the veterans among you know that the 35th has always seen its way through, no matter what was put in front of us.

"Now, are there any other questions?"

The men were silent.

"All right, then. John Mina," as the colonel spoke he looked to the commander of E Company was standing "as senior most captain, is in command until we return." As he spoke he looked over to where Captain Cromwell sat uncomfortably on his borrowed horse. Vincent instantly sensed that there was some conflict brewing there, the way the two men looked at each other.

"Sergeant Major Schuder, get the men moving."

Hans stalked down the length of the line, sparing a cold glance for Hinsen, to the head of the column.

"Uncase the colors," Schuder roared, in his best parade-ground voice.

The staffs were lowered for a moment and then raised up again, revealing the shot-torn national standard, and alongside it the dark-blue flag of Maine, snapping in the breeze.

"Company, right face! Forward, march!"

As one the hundred soldiers turned and started for the sally port. Andrew galloped down the length of the line, to fall in the lead, while a single caisson and field piece clattered into position at the end of the column.

"Sergeant Dunlevy, if there's trouble," O'Donald shouted from his horse, "give 'em a whiff of double canister," and the artillerymen shouted lustily as their commander trotted up to join other mounted men in front of them.

The tiny column passed through the sally port and up across the beach into the trees.

Vincent looked around nervously as they marched east along a narrow, twisting woods-path. Armored men on horseback had joined them and rode along either side of the column. Schuder had already told them that if there was trouble, they'd simply form a square and fight their way back, but it didn't do anything to make him feel any less nervous.

"Musicians, give us a song. 'Marching Through Georgia.'"

The single drummer rolled a flourish, and the fifer started the tune.

"All right, you men, sing, damn you," Hans shouted.

"Ring the old bugle, boys, we'll sing another song."

Vincent fell into the step of the tune, a new favorite with the troops, even though it was about Billy Sherman's boys, and the column's step fell into a rythmic swing.

"Hurrah, hurrah, we bring the jubilee-hurrah, hurrah, the flag that makes men free."

The column pushed on, "Marching Through Goergia" being replaced by "The Girl I Left Behind Me," and then for good measure "The Battle Hymn of the Republic."

The men sang with a will, as much to brace up their own courage as to impress the horsemen riding with them.

The march was soon into its second hour without a break, and the sweat coursed down Vincent's back. But the colonel would not call a halt, as if to show Tyrion and the others the toughness of his men.

The regiment soon got free of the forest and into the beginnings of settled country. For Vincent the view beyond was breathtaking if a bit strange. The terrain was made up of rolling hills and valleys; to the distant east real mountains loomed purple against the horizon. Farmhouses dotted the hillsides, as did flocks of sheep and goats.

There were still patches of woods along the side of the roads. Of the various types of trees, Vincent recognized oaks, walnut, birch, pines-and one other kind, one as white as birch but different. They had faces too, and they didn't look carved-more like they had somehow grown that way.

As he passed more and more of these strange trees, Vincent could have sworn he saw what looked like blood coming out of their eyes and from their mouths. He shook his head, figuring it had to be an illusion.

The road continued northward, past yet more open fields and stands of heavy timber. A village appeared; filthy barefoot children stood in the doorways of log huts, while women who might be twenty five or thirty but looked like fifty stood silent as these blue-coated strangers marched by.

The road continued on until straight ahead of them was an enormous stone structure that looked to Vincent like every picture of a castle he'd ever seen-but much bigger than he'd ever imagined one would be.

Looking at one of the knights accompanying them, Vincent gestured towards the castle. The knight, who had a rather friendly expression underneath his helmet, nodded and said "Winterfell."

"Winterfell?" Vincent asked, hoping he got the name right.

The armored man smiled and nodded. "Winterfell."

As they moved closer, some additional mounted men rode up to the regiment. Most of them wore a combination of plate and chainmail, with either half-helmets covered by a bar-nasal or full visor helmets covering their faces.

One of the latter, an enormous man mounted on a horse larger than a Clydesdale and wearing a helmet shaped like a dog's face, seemed to have singled out Vincent to follow. Vincent pushed on, doing his best to ignore this stranger.

His best wasn't good enough. The man kept tailing him as he marched on, soon was right next to the private. Vincent could tell there was going to be trouble; he almost felt as if he were back home and turning the corner had spied the Pellingro brothers waiting to beat on 'the Quaker sissy.'

The horseman reigned up and shouted something at Vincent. Then pushed up his helmet's visor, and Vincent saw the right side of his was horribly burned, as if he'd burn in a horrible fire.

The burned man shouted something in his own language and cut his horse directly in front of Vincent, who came to a stop and looked directly at the towering form above him. Behind him, the rest of the column came to a halt.

"Care for a little hunting?" a gruff voice called.

For the first time since joining the regiment, Vincent was glad to see Sergeant Schuder, who pushed to the front of the crowd. The horseman remained immovable, looking down at the men with disdain. Vincent could see that Colonel Keane, Dr. Weiss, Cromwell, O'Donald, Tyrion, the color bearers, and the musicians had come to a halt. Keane sat motionless, Dr. Weiss by his side, neither one bothering to turn around and watch, as if such a display were beneath their dignity.

With a dramatic flourish, Schuder scanned the sky and cocked his Sharps carbine. His expression was so determined that the man with the burnt face looked up along with him.

Up in the sky, several raucous crows were flying overhead. In one fluid motion Schuder brought the carbine to his shoulder and fired.

End over end, a broken body tumbled from the sky to the ground several yards away. The scarred warrior gave a shout of terror, his horse rearing up wildly. For a second, Vincent thought both mount and rider would topple onto him. The warrior swung his mount around and galloped back towards his comrades.

Schuder eyed him meditatively as he opened the breech of his gun and slid in another round. "Prettiest shot I ever made," the Sergeant mumbled, then spat a stream of tobacco juice.

The friendly horseman who named Winterfell for Vincent now looked at both him and the Sergeant. "Sandor Clegane," he said, pointing at the horseman with the burnt face. He tried to say more but seeing that neither Yankee understood, simply screwed up his face.

"Yeah well, anytime he wants," Schuder retorted, then turned to walk back up the column.

"Thanks, Sergeant," Vincent said.

Schuder turned back and gazed at the private for a moment. "You did good there, son," he said, then trotted back up to Keane, who for the whole time had not bothered to look back once.

Vincent looked back at the man who named Winterfell and gave them Sandor Clegane's name. "Vincent," he said and tapped his chest. "Vincent Hawthorne."

The friendly horseman grinned and tapped his own chest. "Eagar Snow."

The column started marching again, and soon the stone walls of Winterfell were close enough that Vincent could make out individual windows and towers.

It was like something out of a fairy tale. The entire complex looked to be about a quarter the size of Vassalboro with an eighty foot outer wall of gray granite and enormous towers at each corner. As the column approached, Vincent saw a drawbridge lowering down for them to enter.

They marched over the drawbridge and into what looked like a small village right beneath an inner wall that reached a hundred feet into the air. As they marched passed, Vincent noted how few people were seemed to be in the village, yet the empty building didn't looked abandoned or run down.

Another gate opened leading inside to an enormous courtyard . In the middle was a huge stone structure that Vincent supposed was the castle proper, along with several other building. And standing outside were an enormous crown of people that looked like they had come straight out of the Middle Ages; a handful dressed in fine brightly color embroidered clothes, the vast multitude dressed in a similar but far plainer style.

The entire column came to a halt. Two men came up to Tyrion and helped him down from his horse. Once on his feet, the dwarf toddled up to an enormous man dressed in a fine embroidered black doublet and trousers, with a golden circlet around his head that looked as if it were styled to be made of deer antlers.

"I present you Yankees," Tyrion said in his halting English "Robert of House Baratheon. First of Name. Lord of Seven Westeros. Ruler of Andals. Royhnar. First Men. Protector of Realm."

Vincent looked the man Tyrion had called Robert. Was this a king? At first Vincent thought of the old general Winfield Scott, who had retired from the Army the first year of the war after over half a century of service. Like "Old Fuss and Feathers," this man was nearly six and a half feet tall, and looked like he weighed over three hundred pounds.

But Scott had had over forty years to put on all that weight. As he looked closer, Vincent thought this man was likely in his late thirties or early forties. Next to him stood a strikingly beautiful woman with golden hair and bright green eyes, along with three children-the oldest a boy not much younger than Vincent, along with a girl and younger boy-who bore a strong resemblance to herself. Were these his queen and the royal children?

Tyrion waved his hand towards another man who looked about the same age as the one he called Robert, but far leaner and harder looking, with thick dark hair and beard and a long solemn face. "Eddard Stark," Tyrion said. "Lord of Winterfell. Warden of North. Hand of King."

Keane dismounted from his horse Mercury, walked up to the king, then gave a sharp salute. In unison, all the soldiers in the column, including Vincent, raised their rifles in salute. "Colonel Andrew Lawrence Keane, 35th Maine Volunteer Infantry, United States Army" he said.

A long moment of silence followed. Robert spoke and Tyrion translated, "His Grace ask, why you no abase before king?"

Calmly, Keane replied, "Explain to the king that we mean no disrespect. It is simply that in our country, we do not bend our knee to any man. I am greeting him as I would greet the leader of our own country, Abraham Lincoln. If we do not kneel before our own leaders, we would not to those of any other land."

Tyrion spoke to Robert, and Vincent could feel the tension in the air. Would these people attack them suddenly, for not showing their ruler the proper decorum?

Suddenly Robert broke out in a large, booming laugh. After a minute, he quieted and spoke again. With a relieved look, Tyrion said, "His Grace say, at least with you, he not have to put up with any more bowing and scraping."

A similarly relieved look seemed to come over the rest of the people gathered in the courtyard. If their king was willing to overlook these strangers' rudeness, apparently they were willing to do the same.

Now Tyrion had named Eddard Stark spoke. "Lord Eddard say that you," Tyrion said, indicating Keane, Weiss, O'Donald and Cromwell, "stay in castle as guest of honor. You others-," and his gaze turned to the rest of the men, "be put up in winter town you pass when enter Winterfell. You have hour to get settled, then give show of rifle and cannon. On training ground outside wall."

"You heard Tyrion," Keane said. "Be back here in an hour. Until then-dismissed."

A group of plainly dressed men stepped forward to lead Vincent and the other enlisted men over to what Tyrion called the winter town. Before starting off, Vincent look to see the woman he thought to be the queen and the youth who looked like her, along with a knight Vincent hadn't seen before. All three of them sent rather hostile looks his way. Apparently not everyone accepted the Yankees' refusal to grovel before the king.

Vincent could only hope it wouldn't lead to trouble down the road.

End Of Chapter Two.

Okay, I'm going to have some explaining to do.

Father Casmir in the original Lost Regiment stories is a priest in the Rus Orthodox Church; I decided to have him with the Yankees from the start as a Polish Catholic chaplain for the 44th New York.

As you can see, I'm also putting in some original character for both series here. Like Maester Jaims, who is actually a salt-son of Baelon Greyjoy and Theon's half-brother-although Theon doesn't remember him.

Next Chapter, Keane negotiates with Robert and Eddard, a deal is struck and a journey begins-but someone in Kings Landing has already received word of their arrival.


	3. Chapter 3

Game of Thrones and all related characters are the property of HBO and George R. R. Martin. The Lost Regiment series and characters likewise belong to William R. Forstchen and ROC publishing. No money is being made from their use in this work of fanfiction.

Arya

BOOM! Despite covering her ears, the combined thunder of the bluecoats'-Yankees, she heard they were called- fire-rods rang inside Arya Stark's head. Opening her eyes, she saw the strangers stand erect and place the butts of their weapons on the ground, while their one-armed leader spoke in their language. The twenty Yankees who had fired returned to their comrades.

Several of Arya's father's men walked over to the straw dummies set up set up at the very end of the training ground. After taking down the breastplates, mail shirts, and quilted gambeson jackets placed on the dummies, they brought them back for Arya and the other Westerosi assembled outside Winterfell to see.

Each of the breastplates had at least four holes, or in one instance, a single big hole, near their center. Likewise the ringmail and quilted cloth had been torn through.

And at nearly one hundred yards.

Arya could hear Ser Roderick, Winterfell's master at arms. "How do they manage this? The most powerful bows can't damage castle-forged plate at that distance."

"Evil magic." Ser Bryain Sterling's mouth tightened up. "These bluecoats come from the seven hells for sure."

The Hound snorted. "They're men, like any others." He gave a low cackle; the only sort of laugh Arya heard from Sandor Clegane the few times she'd been around him. "One even quailed when I rode up to him."

"And then that one," spoke up one of her father's guards "killed a bird with his fire-rod, and you galloped away." The speaker was a big man, nearly as large as the simple-minded stable boy Hodor, with dark hair and eyes; Arya recalled his name was Eagar Snow. The Hound said nothing, but simply glared at him. Right beside him, Prince Joffrey tittered.

The Yankee that Eagar had mentioned, a short barrel-chested man with a bushy beard and whose blue jacket had chevrons patterned like a shield embroidered on his sleeves, cried out in his own strange language. Another Yankee came up and stood at attention, the butt of his weapon planted firmly on the ground. Meanwhile, more of Eddard Stark's men walked to the strawmen, lifted and moved them fifty yards further.

Maester Jaims stepped up and address the assembled throng. "What we just saw," he said, "was not sorcery, simply a means of the chemical arts, much like the wildfire made by the pyromancers of the Alchemist's Guild in King's Landing, which this soldier here will demonstrate to you."

"Thank you, maester," said Tyrion. "What this man O'Quinn is holding," and the man in question took out something from a pouch slung over his right shoulder, "is what they call a _cartridge_." O'Quinn showed between his thumb and forefinger an object wrapped in paper about the length and width of half a finger. "Contained inside is a lead projectile similar to a sling bullet and a measure of a black powder."

Next the Yankee bit into the cartridge, spat out the small bit of paper, and placed at the open end of his weapon. "He is pouring the powder down," the Imp explained, "and now he is ramming the bullet home." Arya saw the bluecoat pull out a rod stored into the weapon and use it to tamp the load down.

After sticking the rod into the ground, the man next pulled up the weapon and moved a piece of metal near the wooden grip. "Now he takes out what is called a _percussion cap",_ said the dwarf, and O'Quinn removed a tiny object that looked made of copper from a small pouch on his belt. "It will ignite the powder."

After the servants placed a pumpkin roughly the size of a human head on top of each dummy them a helmet over each pumpkin, they moved back to join the onlookers. The man in blue gazed at the dummies, then holding his weapon like a crossbow, took aim at the one in the center.

 _CRACK!_ The mounted pumpkin fell over and O'Quinn repeated the process of loading his weapon. _CRACK!_ Another pumpkin fell. _Crack! Crack! Crack!_

The Yankee stowed the rod into his weapon and walked back to his companions along with man with the chevroned sleeves. Arya's father's men came back onto the yard, picked up the fallen pumpkins and helmets; as they came back Arya saw that the bullets had driven straight through both steel and vegetable matter.

She could easily imagine what these weapons would do to a human head.

"I'd hate to be in the host charging against these men," Eagar Snow said.

"Such weapons would make men soft," added the Hound. "Men should look their enemies in the eyes when they kill them."

"And they wear no armor," mused Ser Sterling. "Get to close quarters with them and they'll be easy meat."

"But how will you _get_ to close quarters with them?" Although she didn't like what she heard about him, Arya had to agree with Jamie Lannister. Before Ser Sterling could answer, however, five more Yankees detached from a wagon what looked like a big metal log strapped to two wheels and moved it over to the front end of the practice yard, pointing at the propped strawmen. One of them, a big, burly man with hair as red as that of Arya's mother and siblings, stood right behind the big metal tube and turned like looked like a screw that made the end of the tube rise a little. "This here, is called a _cannon,_ " said the Imp, then continued, "Cover your ears." Arya along with the others did so and watched the big redheaded Yankee look down the tube. Nodding, he then took a hold of a lanyard at the very end, took a step back, yanked on the cord-

 _BOOM!_ The noise was far louder than the earlier volley fired by the first group of Yankees as an enormous flame appeared for a brief second, then a gust of wind blew the smoke towards the onlookers.

Arya's sister Sansa and her circle of friends screwed up their noses at the sulfurous odor. "Just one more stink to add to a battlefield," Ser Roderick chimed.

"Smells like a dragon just farted," chuckled Jon Snow. Arya grinned, but decided not to ask how her half-brother how he knew what a dragon fart smelled like.

As the blackish smoke cleared, Arya could see all that remained of straw men was a few floating wisps of straw floating to the ground. Along with the others she stood there in awe. If these strangers' weapons could do this to imitations, what would they do to actual men?

Varys

Lord Varys-he was only called 'Lord' as a courtesy; the eunuch who served as Master of Whisperers for King Robert Baratheon of the Seven Kingdoms owned no lands, had no family connections to any of the great Houses of Westeros or any loyal bannermen to call on, just 'little birds' to whisper into his ears-was sitting in his personal chambers at the Red Keep, pondering what to do with this latest piece of information.

That the strangers had powerful weapons was obvious. But why were they here? How did they land in the North, alongside the White Knife River of all places? What did their coming mean for Westeros?

Those were questions that would have to be answered later, Varys realized. He took out pen and ink and wrote down on paper the message he would give to his little birds in Winterfell.

He read what he had written, pleased with himself. A test was needed, and Ser Bryain Sterling would be the perfect candidate to give it. Fanatics like the knight from the Sisters were so easy to manipulate.

Andrew

"My hand to God, I will never drink again."

Andrew grinned as he imagined what sort of penance Father Casmir would impose on Pat when the big Irishman broke that vow. And Pat would; he could no more stay away from the bottle than a fish away from water.

"That's what you get for entering into a drinking contest with the king," he chuckled wryly. Robert Baratheon, who proved to be the very epitome of a fat, jolly man, was a prodigious drinker and O'Donald seeing it as a challenge, soon began drinking with His Grace, matching him drought for drought.

Andrew himself hadn't drunk so much at the banquet that was presented the night before, right after the 35th and 44th's demonstration of their weapons. Partly because of the melancholy air that seemed to surround the castle, another was so that he could _learn._

First he had been introduced to the Royal Family, then to Lord Eddard's. The Queen, a strikingly beautiful woman in her mid-thirties named Cersei happened to Tyrion's own older sister while one of the King's guards, Jaimie, was their brother. The three Royal children all took after their mother in appearance with her golden blonde hair and green eyes. Likewise, all of Eddard Stark's children save for his younger daughter, a precocious seeming girl named Arya, had the red hair and blue eyes of their mother, Catelyn. The older Stark girl, a red-haired beauty named Sansa, was betrothed to Joffrey the Crown Prince.

Winterfell, it turned out was not King Robert Baratheon's castle, it was Eddard Stark's. The King and his family lived far to the south, in the capital city that as best as Tyrion could translate was called 'King's Landing.' After much back and forth conversation with Tyrion, Andrew learned the reason King Robert was here in Winterfell was to appoint Eddard Stark, apparently old friend of his, to an office called 'Hand of the King,' which meant something like prime minister. In fact they had been set to leave for the capital the very day after they had stumbled across the Yankees. And the main reason for the gloomy atmosphere was, it turned out, one of Lord Eddard's sons, a ten year old boy named Brandon, had fallen from a tower he'd been climbing, and was now unconscious in his bedroom.

When he learned about Eddard's son, Emil explained as best he could through Tyrion that he was a healer and asked as if he could look at the boy. Eddard granted his request; the Jewish doctor had then gone upstairs and hadn't returned to them for the rest of the banquet.

Using more gestures than words, Andrew had asked to see a map. One was brought out, and the colonel learned why Tyrion kept saying 'seven' before mentioning Westeros.

Westeros was made up of seven _Kingdoms._ Not counties, not provinces as Andrew understood them, but seven kingdoms, all under Robert's rule. They were called the North, which Eddard ruled as Warden; the Riverlands, and the Aery, both directly to the south of the North; the Stormlands, what sounded like either the Metal or Steel Islands; the Reach; the Westlands; and finally the one kingdom that didn't exactly have a translation called simply Dorne.

Most of the Westerosi had seemed friendly enough, if a bit wary. But Andrew couldn't help but notice some sending him looks of suspicion is not outright loathing, like one knight that Tyrion named as Bryain Sterling. That wouldn't have worried him much, save for the way the knight seemed to keep whispering into the ears of the Queen and Crown Prince.

Across the room, Captain Cromwell was rising out of bed. "God it smells awful."

 _You obviously weren't at Gettysburg,_ Andrew thought, and then realized that was unfair. To him, the castle smelled a lot better than a typical army camp and certainly just after a battle with the smell of blood and rotten meat everywhere. There was a faint whiff of sulfur-Emil had told him he thought the castle was built over a hot spring bed. As they had marched from their camp much of the landscape and the climate reminded Keane of Maine; if their winters were anything like his home state's than the idea struck the colonel as ingenious.

Keane walked over to the window and looked out. He could see in the village behind Winterfell's first wall, and the folk going about their business-merchants shouting their wares, prospective customers eyeing the goods for sale and muttering in their own language, a blacksmith pounding on an anvil; fullers dipping and bleaching bundles of wool while tanners were scrapping hides.

And here and there his men were mingling with the locals. The latter seemed with eye the Yankees with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension; one young woman, however, walked up to a small group of soldiers. From the way she was swishing her hips Andrew could guess what she intended.

And he was right. One Yankee went to her, and then showed what looked like a silver dollar coin which she promptly took and they walked in one of the small uninhabited houses together.

Andrew looked down directly below the window, where on his insistence Hans and twenty other men were camped. "Sergeant Schuder, everything in order?"

Turning from the task of chewing out a private, Schuder looked up and saluted.

"Still quiet sir, but some of the boys are grumbling because they aren't allowed to eat anything other than hardtack and salt pork."

"Can't be helped," Andrew replied, loud enough for the men to hear. "I don't want us to impose on the locals' hospitality any more than necessary; and until we are sure of these people, a little poisoning could eliminate us rather easily."

"And they might poison us even if they don't mean to." Andrew turned to see Emil Weiss had just entered the room. "The way they serve their food-they seem to do as best they can, but those wooden troughs showed an accumulation of grease that nauseated me, and their plates looked like they were just recently rinsed." The Jewish doctor sighed. "I gave up kosher when I came to America, but now that's the least of my worries.

"I will say this, however-when I went to see Lord Eddard's son, I saw they kept his room as clean as possible, and I asked as best they could to look at that man Sadler had wounded-his name is Woron by the way. I was impressed, especially since they have no experience with bullet wounds. These healers they've got-maesters, I think they call themselves-they're a damn sight better than those butchers they had in the Middle Ages, and maybe even most of the clods back home in the Army." He gave a short laugh. "I might even be able to learn a thing or two from them."

That last was something for Emil to admit; Andrew remembered how his opinion of the usual surgeons with the Army of the Potomac bordered on profanity. "Is there anything you could do for the Stark boy?"

The old doctor shook his head. "Nothing that hasn't already been done for him." He let out a sigh. "If that boy wakes, he'll likely never be able to walk again. It does look like he will, though, thank God."

"All right then," Tobias interjected, "what are we going to do about our situation? We gave that fat oaf of a king a show of what our muskets and cannons can do; what do you think he's going to want with us now?"

"Very likely he'll want us to serve as soldiers for him," replied Andrew. He did worry about the ammunition supply but only a little. Chuck Ferguson, a private in company D who had been a chemistry and engineering student, knew how to make gunpowder and even had a copy of _Scientific American_ that showed how to refine quicksilver into fulminate for percussion caps.

"Think he'll want us to make more guns and cannons and show how to use them?" asked O'Donald, who then shook his head, weary from his hangover.

"We'll have to make spare parts for our muskets in any case," said Andrew. "If we can do that, it wouldn't be a great stretch to manufacture new guns. And according to both Mina and Private Ferguson, cannons can be cast with the same techniques used to make bronze statues."

"And if we are going to this capitol-King's Landing, you say that dwarf called it-," said Tobias, "then we must repair the Ogunquit and get it afloat. I'm not leaving it behind."

" _Can_ the ship be repaired?" asked Emil. "And even if it can, could you get it from the river to the ocean?"

"I've seen the map," replied the captain. "The White Knife empties out into what that dwarf said was called the Narrow Sea, at a place called White Harbor. As for repairs, we have spare parts for the engine, and the hull could be fixed by any competent blacksmith." Tobias then sneered. "Of course it remains to be seen if this place _has_ any competent blacksmiths."

 _And you don't want to walk or ride a horse all the way down south,_ Andrew thought. He remembered how badly Cromwell rode on his borrowed mount, and how getting off the horse he looked about as green as Andrew had felt when at sea. And Keane, who was an excellent horseman, had enjoyed every moment of Tobias's discomfiture.

Hans called out from the window, "Another thing is a lot of the men aren't happy about the idea of taking service with a foreign king."

Andrew understood that attitude; his own grandfather had fought against the British in the Revolution. But he said, "I'm afraid we don't have much choice. Unless we can find a way back to America I'm afraid we're stuck here and do our best to find a place for ourselves here."

Before they could say anything more, there was a knock on the door. Emil opened it, and in walked Tyrion. "How you this morning? Sleep well, yes?"

Andrew nodded in reply, as did Emil and Tobias. Pat just groaned. Tyrion approached him, with the merriment that a drinker feels at the sight of a hungover comrade.

With exaggerated gestures, the dwarf placed his fingers to his temples and groaned in imitation of the big Irishman.

"Shut the bloody hell up," O'Donald snapped.

Tyrion stepped back through the door, beckoned, and then reentered the room. Behind him a servant girl was holding a tray laden with tankards and what looked like a steaming teapot. Andrew recognized by the smell it was a tea brewed from barley and wheat that the locals drank in place of tea or coffee; he'd had some at the banquet last night. Reaching up, Tyrion pour a drink for each of the men, then, smiling as he held out a tankard to Pat, he produced a small ceramic flask.

"Hair of the dog, is it?" Emil chuckled. Seeing Tyrion and the girl frown he quickly added, "An expression in our language."

Tyrion nodded, spoke to the serving girl, and then poured a few drops into the tankard which he offered to Pat.

O'Donald sipped at the hot drink, and then blinked in surprise. "I feel a lot better," he said, then drained the tankard dry. Smacking his lips he said, "That's the real juice in there, but something else too. By St. Brigid of Kildare, it's cleared the cobwebs from me head."

Andrew tried a cup too. It was the same drink he'd had last night , but underneath the taste of barley, mint and honey he noticed whatever it was Tyrion put into the tea. While not quite as effective as leaf tea or coffee it had a kick that banished the last remains of drowsiness from him.

With Pat and Emil's help, Andrew got on his jacket and had his sword buckled on. Pat and Tobias had their swords strapped on as well and each of them had a loaded revolver strapped to their wrists. Those weapons they hadn't demonstrated; Andrew only hoped they wouldn't need them. Walking over to the window, he called down, "Sergeant Schuder, we're going to the meeting now."

"Be careful sir," Hans said, lowering his voice. "If it starts to look like trouble, just fire off a shot, and the boys and I will be after you."

"We'll be all right Hans."

This was a different type of combat and he could see that Hans was uneasy about it, wishing to be alongside his colonel with his Sharps carbine ready at hand.

"Take care Colonel."

Andrew could not help but smile at the concern in Hans' voice, something he had not heard since tough old sergeant found him in the hospital at Gettysburg and Hans burst into tears at the sight of Andrew's amputated arm.

"All right Tyrion, let's get on with it," Andrew said, turning back to the dwarf. He tipped his kepi to the serving girl, who blushed at the formality he'd shown to one of her class, and with Pat Emil and Tobias, walked out the door.

Sterling

"Oh my pardon," Lady Stark said as Bryain Sterling stepped out of the small sept in Winterfell's courtyard. "Usually no one but me and sometimes my daughters and a few servants I brought with me from Riverrun come here; my sons mostly worship as their father does. I was just surprised."

"Not a problem, Lady Stark," Ser Bryain replied, keeping the disapproval from his voice. True, Catelyn Stark had no choice but to marry a heathen northerner but she should have done more to influence her sons. The Targaryens themselves should have burned all the rotten weirwoods while their dragons were still around for them to do so, instead of allowing the lords and smallfolk of the North to continue praying to the demons and evil spirits that made those trees.

Remembering his courtesies he asked, "How is your son?"

"Maester Luwin says he'll live if he wakes." and Sterling could hear the anxiousness in her voice.

"May the Mother Above grant that it may be soon."

Lady Stark smiled at him then went inside the sept. The knight walked several steps away from the sept to a dark, shadowy corner just behind.

"They are at the solar, discussing with His Grace and Lord Eddard," a low voice said from the shadows.

"Seducing the King and ingratiating themselves to him." Ser Bryain did not even bother to keep the disgust from his voice.

"It is good to know there are men like you who can see these bluecoats for what they are."

"It is an evil," Ser Bryain muttered. "Most likely they come from Yi Ti, as servants of the Red Priests and that fire-demon they worship."

"Indeed." After a brief pause the one in the shadows said, "No harm must come to His Grace."

Ser Bryain snorted. "You mistake me for Jamie Lannister," he said. "I am no Kingslayer."

"Of course, of course." Another pause. "Are your men ready?"

"They are," Ser Sterling affirmed.

"Good. For now is the time to strike, for such a chance to have their leader away from protection might not come again. Cut of the head of the snake and the body will die soon after. For all their weapons' power they are only a few. Once they are defeated, the Yankee weapons can be taken and their secrets learned." Ser Bryain nodded. "Then go, with the blessing of the Warrior upon you."

Ser Bryain turned away and walked back across the courtyard. As he neared the castle, his eyes chanced upon Winterfell's Godswood, with its white weirwood standing in the center. The knight resisted the urge to spit; such trees were the work of evil beings called by the deceptively innocuous name Children of the Forest. Although Bryain Sterling was from the Sisters his mother was descended from Errreg the Kinslayer, who attacked the children of the forest's stronghold of High Heart, slaughtered them and reduced the grove of weirwoods to stumps.

He entered the castle, and walked down a hallway to several other men were waiting. He nodded to them.

Ser Cedrick Rightrayn, a knight who had squired with Ser Bryain at Cider Hall, nodded to his old friend. "The Warrior is with us today."

"The Warrior is with us today," Ser Bryain said in return. Like himself, all the men were clad in a padded gambeson jerkin and a jacket of ringmail, with a sword strapped to their side-casual wear for a knight who was guest in a castle. Anything more would attract too much notice. Bryain had also seen the Yankees go to meet with the King and Lord Stark; they wore no armor and they had only slender slightly curved swords for weapons. Gambeson and mail should provide enough protection.

The knights walked up the stairs and down the hallway leading to Eddard Starks solar; standing outside was the fat Kingsguard Ser Boros Blount. Sterling grinned as he felt the dagger slide down his sleeve and into his hand. This would go even easier than expected.

Eddard

"Tell them," said King Robert, before taking a long pull at his winecup, "that they are to swear allegiance to me and to the Iron Throne, to serve as my soldiers in time of war, and to help uphold my laws in time of peace."

The King was seated to Eddard Stark's left at the table in Eddard's solar; at the side of the King and his hand were maesters Jaims and Luwin while behind them stood the Kingsguard Knights Jaimie and Ser Meryn Trent. Sitting across from them were the four Yankee leaders they'd met last night, and the Lannister dwarf.

Tyrion translated the King's words to the Yankees; he had to repeat himself several times to make sure his words got across. Eddard didn't mind that; the dwarf only had a week to learn the alien tongue after all. And it gave him a chance to study the strangers.

Keane, the one armed man sitting right next to Tyrion did most of the talking. He was a tall, thin man who at first glance looked almost too frail to be a soldier-until Eddard looked into the cold gray eyes behind the wire-framed lenses. Those were the eyes of a man who had seen and done great and terrible things; a look Ned Stark knew that his own eyes showed. And the empty sleeve below Keane's left shoulder-a man with that disability would need great steel in him to lead troops into battle.

Eddard idly wondered what battle the Yankee leader lost his arm in.

Finally Tyrion had a reply. "He says that he and his men are willing to do so."

"Now ask them," Robert said, "if they can make more of their weapons, and are willing to train others in their use."

That translation took longer, and required a great many gestures- one point O'Donald, –a big red-haired man who reminded Eddard of Robert when he was young-seemed to be miming a blacksmith at his forge. After a few more exchanges Tyrion turned back to Eddard and the King.

"They say that will take time-they need to gather together raw materials and to set up what they call a 'rifle-works.' It is not quick work, and will require the assistance of several metal-workers-preferably apprentices and journeymen, who are highly skilled yet willing to learn new ways of doing things.

"They say, however, that the cannons-," the dwarf pronounced the alien words carefully-"will be the easiest to make-they are simple metal tubes that are fitted to wooden carriages. In fact, they can even be made with the same methods used to cast bronze statues."

Eddard looked at Maester Luwin. "Do you think they are telling the truth?"

"I can't say for certain," said the elderly maester, "but it does seem likely; the details they are giving sound too specific for sudden fabrication."

The younger maester concurred. "If they'd made sudden promises I'd be suspicious." Eddard felt the same way.

O'Donald spoke again; Tyrian turned his words into the common tongue, "Cannons, he says also have many uses besides mowing down men in the field-much larger cannons, made of iron, are excellent for both attacking and defending fortifications, and are also used on ships. Again, however, it will take some time before they are able to make those."

"Still," Robert whispered to Ned, "think of what we could do, with just the cannons alone."

Eddard nodded in agreement.

Robert smiled. "I agree. Very well," he said, looking straight at the dwarf. "Tell them they are to come with us to King's Landing, where they will be quartered at the Red Keep's barracks. King's Landing has the finest smiths in the entire realm; it shouldn't be hard to find ones who'll fit their need."

Tyrion spoke back to the bluecoats; this time they seemed to repeat the translation several times to get the point across-the healer Weiss seemed to be pantomiming pulling a bucket from a well then grabbed his throat as if choking.

Finally Tyrion tuned back to Ned and Robert. "They say for this they need land of their own."

That one took both Ned and Robert aback. Land was the property of the Crown and Lords, to be bequeathed to retainers and bannermen at their disposal; it was not something to be demanded.

Tyrion went on, "It is the powder, and the percussion caps, Your Grace. Making the powder alone, they say is extremely dangerous-one spark and it can create an explosion powerful enough to set a city on fire. And the percussion caps used to ignite their rifles-if I understand them right, they're saying if something goes wrong the local water supply could be poisoned somehow. For those reasons, it is best done away from a populated area."

Maester Luwin spoke up, "Dangerous things usually are dangerous to make."

"So they are," Eddard agreed. "Still, make them know they are asking for a lot."

As Tyrion spoke to the Yankees, Robert took another pull at his wine cup. "Perhaps that's not a bad idea."

"Say that again, Your Grace?"

"Giving them land. What they're offering could be as great a boon to us as the dragons were for the Targaryons." The King emptied his winecup, and then refilled it from a nearby pitcher. He turned to Maester Jaims. "Who was that Gardener King in the Reach, when the Andals came?"

"Garth IX, Your Grace," the young maester replied.

Ned recalled from his own history lessons as a boy. Instead of armed resistance, Garth IX Gardener had offered several Andal warlords descending on the Reach lands and lordships in exchange for pledges of fealty. Garth's new vassals had brought smiths and other craftsmen to show new ways of making armor, weapons and improving fortifications; when later Andals tried to invade the Reach, these new retainers helped drive them back.

Garth would on his deathbed boast that he had turned the wolves into his sheepdogs.

And these Yankees certainly had more to offer the realm than those Andals did the Gardener King. Eddard Stark was not an imaginative man, but he could picture the fortresses and keeps of the North outfitted with cannons like Tyrion described -Baelon Greyjoy would certainly think twice before rebelling and raiding the North's shores that was certain.

Robert added to Tyrion, "We can work out the details on this matter later. For now, let them know that they have to be ready to march down with us to King's Landing within two days. It is a long journey, and we've been here at Winterfell too long."

But when Tyrion spoke, Cromwell, who Ned understood was captain of the ship the Yankees had arrived on, angrily stood up and shouted. The other three Yankees looked at him with consternation as Tyrion translated, "He says they need to repair their ship, and that he and his men won't be leaving it behind."

"And how long will that take?" Eddard asked.

After several back and forth discussions, Tyrion said, "I think he's saying about 6 to eight weeks."

"Preposterous!" Robert roared. "We've been here long enough as it is; we need to get back to King's Landing as soon as possible.

"Indeed," Ned nodded. So far, the Yankees had been reasonable and for unexpected guests seemed to be trying hard not to make nuisances of themselves. But Winterfell's storehouses could not keep feeding them and Robert's own royal party for that long without being seriously depleted.

And winter was coming.

He was say as much, when all of a sudden there was a loud THUNK at the door.

Keane and the other Yankees looked at Eddard and Robert with what had to be alarm. Keane shouted something what Eddard guessed meant "What is the meaning of this?!"

"Tell him I don't know," Ned shouted to Tyrion, and prayed that the Yankees would believe him. With a soldier's reflexes, he kicked back his chair, drew the longsword at his belt, and rushed to the door. The two Kingsguard knights rushed beside Eddard with their own swords drawn. There were sounds of more axes chopping through the door-and one right through the beam holding it shut.

About eight men, wearing mail and holding a drawn sword or axe burst through. One, snarling at Eddard, rushed right at the Lord of Winterfell, his axe raised high-and suddenly a thunderous explosion sounded in the solar. A large hole in the middle of his forehead appeared, and Ned's would be attacker dropped his axe, and crumbled to the ground.

Eddard glanced back and saw Keane standing, holding a short metal tube with smoke pouring out. _Another of their smoke powder weapons,_ he realized.

Robert himself stood up from his chair. "Stop this madness, in the name of your king!"

Eddard recognized Ser Bryain Sterling standing right next to the man Keane had killed; his fallen comrade's blood and brains splattered over his face. "Your Grace, it is madness that has seized you!" he cried. "These bluecoats have somehow bewitched you, and this heathen Northman has to be in league with them!"

Sterling said no more but with the other attackers rushed straight at Keane. Keane's weapon roared twice again, and the other three Yankees had drawn and fired their own sidearms. Sterling fell, blood coming from his chest and his mouth. Two other knights fell as well, while another dropped his sword and clutched at his arm.

And that seemed to break the heart of the rest; one by one they dropped their weapons and fell to their knees.

"Mercy, Your Grace!" one cried.

"We yield!" said another.

Shouts and footsteps sounded from the hallways, and now Ned saw his son Robb, with Theon Greyjoy, Jon, Ser Roderick, and several of his own household guards with drawn swords appear in the doorway.

"Father, what happened?" Eddard's oldest son asked. "We heard the sounds of the Yankee weapons and came rushing-and then we saw Ser Boros outside the door with his throat cut-," he eyed the dead bodies and the four Yankee leaders with the smoke-powder rods in their hands.

"These men," Eddard indicated the attackers living, dead, and wounded, "tried to attack us during our discussions. Take the living to the dungeons-." He was interrupted by more shouts from the hallway, in what sounded like the Yankees' language. Stepping out, he saw a large column of Yankees surging up toward the solar, with long shining blades attached to the ends of their weapons.

Coming up from behind Eddard, Keane held up his hand and shouted in his language. Whatever the one-armed man said seemed to mollify his men, who placed the butts of the fire-rods on the ground-although they still seemed wary.

Eddard didn't blame them; things could have gone so much worse. Turning back to his son and Ser Roderick, he said, "The Yankees did no more than defend themselves-and me and Robert as well. Remove the bodies, and take the rest down to the dungeon. Oh, and Maester Jaims," he said to the young maester, "Do what you can for the wounded man."

Weiss spoke up. Tyrion-who apparently had been hiding under table-walked up to Eddard as fast as his short legs could carry him. "He says he wants to look at him to; as the Yankees' healer he has considerable experience treating the wounds their weapons can cause."

Eddard nodded. "Very well." As the surviving attackers were led away and the bodies of Ser Bryain, Ser Boros, and the other dead man removed he looked at Keane. "Tell him to please accept my humblest apologies; I have given him and his men guest right and this attack was a grievous breach of it."

As usual, Tyrion had to go back and forth with the Yankee leader several times before he got his meaning across. "He says he understands, and that neither you nor the King is to blame."

"Good," said Eddard; they walked back into the solar. "Now tell him if he wishes, we can continue with our talks."

This exchange took considerably less time. Keane simply nodded, and Tyrion translated his words. "He says he's been through worse."

Robert, who had gotten up from his seat but due to his girth had only moved a few steps from the table, burst into one of his booming laughs. "This man is a soldier indeed!"

Ned smiled. "So he is."

Tyrion

Somewhere in the great stone maze of Winterfell, a wolf howled. The sound hung over the castle like a flag of mourning.

Tyrion Lannister looked up from his books and shivered, though the library was snug and warm. Something about the howling of a wolf took a man right out of his here and now and left him in a dark forest of the mind, running naked before the pack.

When the direwolf howled again, Tyrion shut the heavy leatherbound cover on the book he was reading, a hundred-year-old discourse on the changing of the seasons by a long-dead maester. Tyrion had come here to the Winterfell library after an agreement between King Robert and the Yankees had finally been reached. It had been the Hour of the Wolf, and all the other parties have gone to bed. He covered a yawn with the back of his hand. His reading lamp was flickering, its oil all but gone, as dawn light leaked through the high windows. He had been at it all night, but that was nothing new. Tyrion Lannister was not much a one for sleeping.

His legs were stiff and sore as he eased down off the bench. He massaged some life back into them and limped heavily to the table where the septon was snoring softly, his head pillowed on an open book in front of him. Tyrion glanced at the title. A life of the Grand Maester Aethelmure, no wonder. "Chayle," he said softly. The young man jerked up, blinking, confused, the crystal of his order swinging wildly on its silver chain. "I'm off to break my fast. See that you return the books to the shelves. Be gentle with the Valyrian scrolls, the parchment is very dry. Ayrmidon's Engines of War is quite rare, and yours is the only complete copy I've ever seen." Chayle gaped at him, still half-asleep. Patiently, Tyrion repeated his instructions, then clapped the septon on the shoulder and left him to his tasks.

Outside, Tyrion swallowed a lungful of the cold morning air and began his laborious descent of the steep stone steps that corkscrewed around the exterior of the library tower. It was slow going; the steps were cut high and narrow, while his legs were short and twisted. The rising sun had not yet cleared the walls of Winterfell, but the men were already hard at it in the yard below. Sandor Clegane's rasping voice drifted up to him. "The boy is a long time dying. I wish he would be quicker about it."

Tyrion glanced down and saw the Hound standing with young Joffrey as squires swarmed around them. "At least he dies quietly," the prince replied. "It's the wolf that makes the noise. I could scarce sleep last night."

Clegane cast a long shadow across the hard-packed earth as his squire lowered the black helm over his head. "I could silence the creature, if it please you," he said through his open visor. His boy placed a longsword in his hand. He tested the weight of it, slicing at the cold morning air. Behind him, the yard rang to the clangor of steel on steel.

The notion seemed to delight the prince. "Send a dog to kill a dog!" he exclaimed. "Winterfell is so infested with wolves, the Starks would never miss one."

Tyrion hopped off the last step onto the yard. "I beg to differ, nephew," he said. "The Starks can count past six. Unlike some princes I might name."

Joffrey had the grace at least to blush.

"A voice from nowhere," Sandor said. He peered through his helm, looking this way and that. "Spirits of the air!"

The prince laughed, as he always laughed when his bodyguard did this mummer's farce. Tyrion was used to it. "Down here."

The tall man peered down at the ground, and pretended to notice him. "The little lord Tyrion," he said. "My pardons. I did not see you standing there."

"I am in no mood for your insolence today." Tyrion turned to his nephew. "Joffrey, it is past time you called on Lord Eddard and his lady, to offer them your comfort."

Joffrey looked as petulant as only a boy prince can look. "What good will my comfort do them?"

"None," Tyrion said. "Yet it is expected of you. Your absence has been noted."

"The Stark boy is nothing to me," Joffrey said. "I cannot abide the wailing of women."

Tyrion Lannister reached up and slapped his nephew hard across the face. The boy's cheek began to redden.

"One word," Tyrion said, "and I will hit you again."

"I'm going to tell Mother!" Joffrey exclaimed.

Tyrion hit him again. Now both cheeks flamed.

"You tell your mother," Tyrion told him. "But first you get yourself to Lord and Lady Stark, and you fall to your knees in front of them, and you tell them how very sorry you are, and that you are at their service if there is the slightest thing you can do for them or theirs in this desperate hour, and that all your prayers go with them. Do you understand? Do you?"

The boy looked as though he was going to cry. Instead, he managed a weak nod. Then he turned and fled headlong from the yard, holding his cheek. Tyrion watched him run.

A shadow fell across his face. He turned to find Clegane looming overhead like a cliff. His soot-dark armor seemed to blot out the sun. He had lowered the visor on his helm. It was fashioned in the likeness of a snarling black hound, fearsome to behold, but Tyrion had always thought it a great improvement over Clegane's hideously burned face.

"The prince will remember that, little lord," the Hound warned him. The helm turned his laugh into a hollow rumble.

"I pray he does," Tyrion Lannister replied. "If he forgets, be a good dog and remind him." He glanced around the courtyard. "Do you know where I might find my brother?"

"Breaking fast with the queen."

"Ah," Tyrion said. He gave Sandor Clegane a perfunctory nod and walked away as briskly as his stunted legs would carry him, whistling. He pitied the first knight to try the Hound today. The man did have a temper.

A cold, cheerless meal had been laid out in the morning room of the Guest House. Jaime sat at table with Cersei and the children, talking in low, hushed voices.

"Is Robert still abed?" Tyrion asked as he seated himself, uninvited, at the table.

His sister peered at him with the same expression of faint distaste she had worn since the day he was born. "The king has not slept at all," she told him. "He is with Lord Eddard. He has taken their sorrow deeply to heart."

"He has a large heart, our Robert," Jaime said with a lazy smile. There was very little that Jaime took seriously. Tyrion knew that about his brother, and forgave it. During all the terrible long years of his childhood, only Jaime had ever shown him the smallest measure of affection or respect, and for that Tyrion was willing to forgive him most anything.

A servant approached. "Bread," Tyrion told him, "and two of those little fish, and a mug of that good dark beer to wash them down. Oh, and some bacon. Burn it until it turns black." The man bowed and moved off. Tyrion turned back to his siblings. Twins, male and female. They looked very much the part this morning. Both had chosen a deep green that matched their eyes. Their blond curls were all a fashionable tumble, and gold ornaments shone at wrists and fingers and throats. "I only had a chunk of bread and cheese after the talks were done, and negotiations, I'm finding, is hungry work."

Tyrion wondered what it would be like to have a twin, and decided that he would rather not know. Bad enough to face himself in a looking glass every day. Another him was a thought too dreadful to contemplate.

"Ah, yes," said Jamie. "How did they go? I'm afraid I was bored, standing out there in place of poor Ser Boros, and it made me too sleepy to really pay attention."

"The Yankees are to be given Castle Blackfyre," said Tyrion. "There, they will work on making more of their strange powder and weapons with the help of metal workers and other craftsmen that Robert will send to them, and present to the Lords of the realm their power. They hope to build on that, and hopefully it will make the entire realm a lot stronger."

The Older Lannister brother smirked. "About time someone got some use out of that place," said Jaimie. "I never understood why Daeron the Good didn't just give that castle to someone else after his bastard half-brother's rebellion failed, or have it torn down."

"It's a good enough location," replied Tyrion. "On the other side of Blackwater Bay, half a day's ride from King's Landing, closer to go by ship. Close enough to be accessible but far enough to minimize any potential danger they say making their weapons can cause."

"So they'll be leaving with us tomorrow?"

"Keane and most of the Yankees will." Tyrion bit into a piece of bacon, and swigged from his mug of beer. "Captain Cromwell and his sailors will be remaining behind, so they can repair their ship. There are less than a hundred sailors; Winterfell should be able to accommodate them for as long as it's supposed to take."

Now Cersei seemed rather interested. "Why would it take so long to repair that ship? And why couldn't they just get another one?"

Tyrion looked at his sister with frank curiosity. "Cromwell says the ship is not like any other. Somehow it uses the power of steam to be able to move without sails or oars, and much swifter than any other ship can."

"A ship that moves without sails?" Cersei's expression was one of disbelief. For once Tyrion actually agreed with her; it had taken several exchanges between him and the Yankees for him to see they really meant that. "Surely they must be telling ale stories."

"Maester Jaims thinks it's probable," Tyrion said however. "He told of how one Maester Nerhos was able to make a hollow spheroid rotate on an axis by connecting it through copper tubes to a lid and placing it on a kettle of boiling water, and Luwin confirmed what he said. While it's nothing but a toy of the Citadel, they think whatever powers the Yankees' ship may work on the same principle."

Tyrion decided not to tell his siblings the two maesters' other theory, the one they had suggested to Him, Lord Eddard, and His Grace-that the Yankees were from another world, brought to Westeros by magic or some other unexplainable means. Strange as it was it seemed all too likely to him; while he had never gone to Essos or anywhere beyond the Seven Kingdoms Tyrion had read much of what maesters and other chroniclers who have traveled wrote about the known world-and in none of their records mentioned anything like these bluecoats.

Deciding to continue with the topic at hand, the dwarf said, "Keane himself has sent one of his men back on his horse to their encampment; the whole lot of them will be coming here to Winterfell. They will be bringing a priest of theirs and swear allegiance to Robert on their holy book." Tyrion took another swig, this time emptying his tankard. "His Grace has ordered me to stay with the Yankees, to act as his eyes and ears among them. Maester Jaims will too; he will help teach their officers how to read and write the common tongue, and Keane, if I understand him right, has expressed a desire to learn the realm's history as well."

"A sellsword who is also a scholar," Jaime muttered. "What strange times we live in."

"Do they have any women with them?" Cersei asked.

"One," replied Tyrion. "A comely lass named Kathleen O'Rielly, I think. She acts as an assistant to their healer, the man called Weiss."

"And probably provides another service as well." The amused look, with a hint of lechery on the older Lannister brother's face that told his dwarf sibling what he was thinking.

"Oh no, no, it's not like that," said Tyrion. "She doesn't move or act like a whore, and the men all seem to treat her with a special deference, like an older sister or highborn lady. And trust me brother, I know whores."

"You certainly do," Jaime replied, the expression still on his face.

Cersei looked scandalized, but said, "When I meet with her, I will have to offer to have her accompany me and my other ladies in the wheelhouse."

"You won't be able to talk with her," Tyrion interjected.

"Yes," said Jaimie but he looked at Tyrion. "And how will the Yankee sailors under-Cromwell, is that his name?-be able to communicate when you're gone?"

"Maester Luwin has spent much of the evening trying to, and has already picked up several words of their language," said Tyrion. "It's also amazing how far you can get with gestures."

"You see?" Cersei said smugly. "Given some time with her, and we shouldn't have much trouble understanding each other. She and the other Yankees are going to have to learn our language in any case, if they are to remain in the Seven Kingdoms."

Tyrion didn't like the idea of that. His sister had a mind like a snake, twisted and slithering. She would certainly try to use the Yankee woman in some scheme to gain influence over them or to learn things that could endanger them.

Before he could say anything, Prince Tommen spoke up. "Do you have news of Bran, Uncle?"

"I stopped by the sickroom last night," Tyrion announced. "There was no change. The maesters thought that a hopeful sign."

"I don't want Brandon to die," Tommen said timorously. He was a sweet boy. Not like his brother, but then Jaime and Tyrion were somewhat less than peas in a pod themselves.

"Lord Eddard had a brother named Brandon as well," Jaime mused. "One of the hostages murdered by Aerys Targaryen. It seems to be an unlucky name."

"Oh, not so unlucky as all that, surely," Tyrion said. The servant brought his plate. He ripped off a chunk of black bread.

Cersei was studying him warily. "What do you mean?"

Tyrion gave her a crooked smile. "Why, only that Tommen may get his wish. The maester thinks the boy may yet live." He took a sip of beer.

Myrcella gave a happy gasp, and Tommen smiled nervously, but it was not the children Tyrion was watching. The glance that passed between Jaime and Cersei lasted no more than a second, but he did not miss it. Then his sister dropped her gaze to the table. "That is no mercy. These northern gods are cruel to let the child linger in such pain."

"What were the maester's words?" Jaime asked.

The bacon crunched when he bit into it. Tyrion chewed thoughtfully for a moment and said, "He thinks that if the boy were going to die, he would have done so already. It has been four days with no change."

"Will Bran get better, Uncle?" little Myrcella asked. She had all of her mother's beauty, and none of her nature.

"His back is broken, little one," Tyrion told her. "The fall shattered his legs as well. They keep him alive with honey and water, or he would starve to death. Perhaps, if he wakes, he will be able to eat real food, but he will never walk again."

"If he wakes," Cersei repeated. "Is that likely?"

"The gods alone know," Tyrion told her. "The maester only hopes." He chewed some more bread. "I would swear that wolf of his is keeping the boy alive. The creature is outside his window day and night, howling. Every time they chase it away, it returns. The maester said they closed the window once, to shut out the noise, and Bran seemed to weaken. When they opened it again, his heart beat stronger."

The queen shuddered. "There is something unnatural about those animals," she said. "They are dangerous. I will not have any of them coming south with us."

Jaime said, "You'll have a hard time stopping them, sister. They follow those girls everywhere."

"If the Yankee's language is so easy to learn," Jaime brought the conversation back to the strangers, "how likely will they need you around?"

"Some will learn faster than others," Tyrion said. "And they will certainly need someone to guide them around King's Landing and help familiarize them with the court-who better than me?"

"You have a gift for diplomacy, it seems," Jamie grinned. "Perhaps the next time Robert sends an embassy to one of the free cities, perhaps he should send you."

"Oh yes," Tyrion sighed. "To see Braavos, Pentosh, Volantis, or Lys-ooh how well I would represent the Realm at their pleasure houses!"

Cersei stood abruptly. "The children don't need to hear this filth. Tommen, Myrcella, come." She strode briskly from the morning room, her train and her pups trailing behind her.

Jaime Lannister regarded his brother thoughtfully with those cool green eyes. "Stark will never consent to leave Winterfell with his son lingering in the shadow of death."

"He will if Robert commands it," Tyrion said. "And Robert will command it. There is nothing Lord Eddard can do for the boy in any case."

"He could end his torment," Jaime said. "I would, if it were my son. It would be a mercy."

"I advise against putting that suggestion to Lord Eddard, sweet brother," Tyrion said. "He would not take it kindly."

"Even if the boy does live, he will be a cripple. Worse than a cripple. A grotesque. Give me a good clean death."

Tyrion replied with a shrug that accentuated the twist of his shoulders. "Speaking for the grotesques," he said, "I beg to differ. Death is so terribly final, while life, as the Yankees' coming shows, is full of possibilities."

Jaime smiled. "You are a perverse little imp, aren't you?"

"Oh, yes," Tyrion admitted. "I hope the boy does wake. I would be most interested to hear what he might have to say."

His brother's smile curdled like sour milk. "Tyrion, my sweet brother," he said darkly, "there are times when you give me cause to wonder whose side you are on."

Tyrion's mouth was full of bread and fish. He took a swallow of strong black beer to wash it all down, and grinned up wolfishly at Jaime, "Why, Jaime, my sweet brother," he said, "you wound me. You know how much I love my family."

Jon

The Starks, the Winterfell staff and guards, the Royal party, and as many of the winter town's residents as possible were here before the Godswood.

The Yankees, including the from the sailors from the ship were all assembled in neat rows in front of the king, the soldiers standing erect with glistening spear-points attached to the ends of their fire-rods; the ones who attended the _cannons_ likewise stood beside their wheeled tubes. There were just over 600 of them, Jon could count.

He himself was not standing with his father and half-siblings; it would not be proper for a bastard like him to be in the direct presence of the King in an important matter like this-and if he had forgotten that, he was sure Lady Stark would have reminded him.

Instead, Jon was with the servants and staff of Winterfell, his albino direwolf Ghost at his side. He didn't mind in truth, for it enabled him to observe both parties.

King Robert and Queen Cersei stood ahead of the rest, dressed in their most resplendent robes and their crowns on their heads. Robert for once was actually sober, and his girth actually seemed to help give dignity to his expression. The Lannister dwarf Tyrion was right beside them, dressed in a fine red doublet with the golden lion of House Lannister emblazoned across his chest.

Among the Yankees was a youth with a small drum. As he began beating on it, a slow, steady rhythm, the bluecoats' one-armed leader Keane came into yard upon a dark grey gelding.

As their leader passed, the Yankees all raised their right hands across their brows in what seemed to be a form of salute. In a remarkable display of horsemanship, Keane dropped his reins and, while controlling his mount with only his spurs and knees, returned the gesture.

As he neared the King, Keane dismounted from his horse. After handing the reigns to a nearby soldier, he walked up where Robert was standing, while a an middle aged man wearing a white and cloth of gold robe and carrying a large leatherbound book walked up beside the Yankee leader.

Keane stood directly in front of Robert; they were the same towering height or near enough to look each other squarely in the eyes. In contrast to Robert however Keane was nearly as lean as a spear shaft.

Keane placed his hand on the book his companion held out before him and spoke. "Before Almighty God," Tyrion turned the Yankee's words into the common tongue, "I, Andrew Lawrence Keane, solemnly swear that I will bear true faith and allegiance to his Grace Robert of House Baratheon, the first of his name, King of the Andals, the Royhnar, the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, and Protector of the Realm, and that I will serve him and the Iron Throne faithfully and honestly, to fight against his and the realm's enemies in time of war, and to abide by and uphold his laws in time of peace."

Behind Keane, all of his men spoke in unison. Jon couldn't understand their words but figured they were simply repeating their commander. As they finished, nearly all of the men who served the _cannons,_ as well as several in the main ranks touched themselves from forehead to waist then right shoulder to left.

After they finished, the Yankee priest returned to the bluecoats' ranks, and the septon of Winterfell-Jon always thought of him as Lady Catelyn's septon, for only Lady Stark, a handful of others, and occasionally his half-sisters Sansa and Arya worshipped the Seven-came next to Robert with a large ornate Seven Pointed Star. He held out the book before the King, who placed his right hand on it and spoke.

"Andrew Lawrence Keane," Robert's voice was surprisingly regal and serious, "I Robert of House Baratheon, the first of my name, King of the Andals, the Royhnar, the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, and Protector of the Realm, accept you and your men as my leal bannermen. Before Gods and Men, I swear that you and yours shall always have a place by my hearth, that you shall always have meat and mead at my table, and that I shall ask no service of you that will bring you shame."

Tyrion Lannister turned the King's words into the Yankee's language. Keane dipped his head to Robert, then to Queen Cersei. With a look of what Jon saw as disdainful condescension, the Queen held out her hand; which the Yankee leader took in his own and kissed.

King Robert raised his hand. Keane stood erect and gave him their salute; behind him the other Yankee officers and cannon attendees saluted as well, while the rest held out their fire-rods in the same manner as men with pole-arms did when acknowledging a leader.

In his booming voice the king said, "Now that business is done-let's get ready to depart tomorrow!"

Tyrion spoke again in the Yankee's language. The short barrel chested man with the chevrons on his sleeves that Jon had seen at the demonstration yesterday barked something that seemed to mean what it sounded like in the common tongue: "DISMISSED!"

The Yankees, the royal party, and the people of Winterfell broke from their formations. Jon saw Lady Catelyn along with his two half-sisters walk back to Winterfell; his father and his uncle Benjen Stark were walking toward him.

Eddard Stark looked Jon in the eyes. "Are you ready Jon?"

"Yes I am," Jon answered. He had been surprised at first when his father and uncle came to him that morning with their proposal. But Eddard had also told Jon that the decision would be his, and he made it.

Jon and his father made their way to the Yankees where their one-armed leader was walking his horse, with the Lannister dwarf close beside him.

"Keane," Eddard called out. Keane turned as Jon and Eddard approached him. "If I may, I wish to have a word."

Keane spoke to Tyrion, who said, "Very well. He says that given the gracious hospitality you have shown him and his men, the least he can do is hear what you have to say."

"Good." Eddard took a deep breath, then looked Keane directly in the eyes and said, "If you wish to repay me, there is a way. This here," and he motioned for Jon to come forward, "is Jon Snow."

Tyrion repeated Eddard's words in the Yankee language. He and Keane spoke back and forth several times before the dwarf turned back to Eddard and Jon. "I explained to him that Jon is your bastard son," he told Eddard. "Keane says that doesn't matter, not to him."

"Thank you." Eddard spoke as if directly to Keane. "You will eventually be training othesr in how to use weapons such as yours. It would be a great pleasure to me if you allowed Jon to be the first, to join your ranks."

After hearing Tyrion translate his father's words, Keane now looked at Jon. Jon wasn't sure what to make of the man's expression; the wire framed lenses Keane wore over his eyes seemed to give him an inquisitive look like that of a maester rather than a soldier.

Finally he spoke to Jon through Tyrion. "If you join us, it will be as a common soldier-a _private-_ and you will have to obey the orders of the officers and the _noncoms-_ the men with the chevrons on their sleeves-set over you, and that any additional rank you attain among us you will have to earn. Are you willing to do that?"

"Yes my lord," Jon answered automatically.

Keane held up his hand. "He says to not call him _lord,"_ Tyrion translated. "Call him _colonel,_ it's a title in their language that refers to someone who commands a unit of soldiers this size. Or _sir._ Its sounds similar to the knightly _Ser,_ and that you are to refer to all officers by that, or their specific title."

Jon nodded. "I understand, my lor- _colonel,_ uh, _sir._ " He could feel his cheeks get red as he stumbled over the foreign words.

Keane actually smiled. "You'll get used to it. Now, how good are you at taking care of horses?"

Jon blinked when Tyrion translated that question. Like all of Lord Eddard's children almost as soon as he could walk Jon had been taught not just how to ride but to trim and care for a horse's hooves, to maintain tack and bridle, and to look for signs of injury or illness. "I'm quite good at that, sir."

Keane nodded, then brought his horse forward. "This is _Mercury_ ," Tyrion translated. "While we travel to King's Landing, would you be willing to tend to him while you spend become accustomed to us and learn our language?"

At those words Jon began to feel a small contempt like he did for southron lords who supposedly needed a body servant for every little task. Eddard had told him that a lord should rely on servants only for things his duties prevented him from doing himself; whenever he traveled with his father and Rob they all tended to their own mounts. Then Jon saw the empty sleeve dangling from Keane's left shoulder, and his scorn vanished. Maimed as he was the Yankee leader probably needed assistance with a variety of tasks that a man with all his limbs would take for granted.

Finally, he said, "It would be an honor and privilege, sir." He looked out at Mercury. "That is an excellent animal." Then he remembered something he had to bring up.

Jon glanced to the shadow of the weirwood tree where Ghost was waiting. Without a word, just a gesture with his left eyebrow the albino direwolf walked over to the four men.

"This is Ghost, my direwolf," Jon said. Tyrion spoke to Keane, going back and forth several times. When they stopped, Keane stepped toward Ghost, holding out his hand. Ghost bristled initially, then sniffed Keane's hand and let the one-armed man stroke him.

Keane spoke and Tyrion translated, "Make sure he doesn't become a nuisance."

"I won't, sir."

Keane turned back to Jon. "Very good. Now make sure you are ready when we leave tomorrow."

"I will. Thank you sir." Jon started to bow, but Tyrion stopped him.

"He says you should not bow, not to him," the dwarf explained. "If you are to be under his command, you must salute him, like you saw the others do."

"Oh." Now Jon stood erect, and in imitation of what he saw earlier, copied the Yankee salute, which Keane returned.

After parting with Keane and Tyrion, Jon and Eddard were joined by Benjen. "I'm not sure how to say this, but I'm glad you made this decision, Jon," Benjen told his nephew.

"I am too." Jon had been ready ,even eager, to depart for the Wall that separated the far north from the realms of men, when his father and uncle had come to him that morning. At first it seemed that Benjen was trying to dissuade him from taking the black, but Eddard assured Jon that the decision would be his.

And he decided. He couldn't deny that these strangers fascinated him, and to learn about them and perhaps even get to use these strange weapons of theirs was something he decided would be impossible to pass up.

He felt Eddard's hand on his shoulder. "Remember Jon, you are to be my eyes and ears among these people. Learn their language, talk to them, get to know them-and learn everything you can about them."

"And the Wall will still be waiting for you, if you still decide to take the black after this duty is finished," Uncle Benjen said. "In a few years' time, enough of these strange weapons may be made they will be sending some to the Wall to arm us. Who knows, you may even be the one to teach the Black Brothers how to use them." He gave a small chuckle. "And don't worry about me; I won't lack for company on my way back." That last one brought a small smile from all of them. The surviving men who attacked Jon's father and the King while they negotiating with the Yankees had all agreed to take

The black to atone for their crime, and several of Winterfell's own soldiers would be escorting them and Benjen to the Wall.

Eddard and Benjen both glanced at the weirwood tree. Jon did as well; whenever he saw that white tree with its wooden face it was if he felt the Old Gods of the Forest staring at him and into his soul.

Ned Stark continued, "However the Yankees came here, by whatever means, it was for a reason, of that I am certain. What that reason is only the Gods themselves know. They may reveal it in time or they may not. But I am certain the Yankees coming will mean great things for the Realm, for good or for ill. So remember, Tyrion Lannister may help you learn the language, but be careful around the man. I do not trust him."

His father's last statement puzzled Jon. "Father, I know what people say about dwarfs but I never thought that you would feel-,"

Eddard cut off Jon. "His being a dwarf has nothing to do with my mistrust for him."

Vincent

It was the first roast chicken he had eaten since he joined the army. And Vincent Hawthorne enjoyed every bite.

"It really makes me homesick for my Ma's cooking," Gerald Bainbridge, who was seated next to Hawthorne on his right.

"Not mine," said Bill Webster. The banker's son from Portland still wore his kepi even at the dinner table, probably to hide that even though he was nineteen he was nearly bald. "We had a housekeeper who did the cooking for us. One time she got sick and Ma had to do the cooking for a week, it was so bad we should have loaded it into a cannon and shot it at the Rebs."

"Nothing like my mother's," said another private that Vincent didn't know, who was also from Portland. "If we shot her cooking from a cannon, them Rebs would have fought even harder, for fear of having to eat like that all the time."

Howls of laughter spread among the dinner table; Vincent himself joined in. Jokes about food were one thing he didn't mind; a lot of other things his companions found funny still made his ears turn red.

Vincent and all the other enlisted men were seated at several rows of tables set in the square of the village behind Winterfell's first wall called "Winter Town' for some reason. Torches were set up all round them, giving great illumination to the early evening sky. In addition to the chicken there was fresh brown bread, salty smoked ham and salmon poached in a syrup similar to maple, buttered turnips, something similar but not quite like potatoes roasted and peppered, and a strong smelling white cheese. It was much better than Army food and plenty of it. The officers were inside Winterfell, enjoying probably even better fare than spread out here.

"Enjoy it while you can boys," Sergeant Barry called out. "Starting tomorrow it's back to salt pork, hardtack, and desecrated vegetables." A good natured groan sounded across the tables, especially about the term used to describe the desiccated produce that made up much of the Army's food supply. Colonel Keane had made it clear that while they traveled to the capital of this kingdom that they'd be mainly living on the rations that had been brought on the _Ogunquit_ and impose as little as possible on the Westerosi.

A short walk away from the tables, a small musical battle was going on. Several in the regiment had musical instruments among the personal effects they'd brought back from the ship, and were playing the familiar camp songs; Vincent found himself whispering along to the words of 'Camptown Races.'

A group of locals had come out with musical instruments of their own, and began playing what were their own people's songs. Soon, the Yankee and Winterfell bands were trying to pick up and imitate each other's tunes; it was really funny to see a band with medieval instruments try to play Stephen Foster.

To Vincent's surprise, he saw Tyrion Lannister the dwarf who had become their translator, among the locals watching the two band play. Seeing a chance to satisfy a gnawing curiosity, he got up from his chair. With Bill Webster beside him, the two privates walked over to the little man.

He recognized them both immediately. "Ah, Vincent, Bill," Tyrion said. "So good to see you."

"Good to see you too," Vincent replied. "Why'd you come out here?"

"Most inside too busy with feast or drink," Tyrion replied. "Leaders mostly drink or talk among themselves. Little need for translating."

"Oh. Well, Bill and I were wondering something." They walked away from the crowd into the village where they were surrounded by a large number of well-kept but empty houses.

"All these houses," Bill Webster held up his hands, indicating the rows of vacant buildings. "Why are there so many of them when nobody lives in them."

"Winter town," Tyrion said. "When winter come-farmer and others come from miles around, wait out winter."

"Are winters-bad here?" Coming from Maine, Vincent had seen some plenty nasty winters in his young life but couldn't imagine one that would make so many people leave their homes for just a few months.

"Here in North? Very bad." Tyrion shrugged. "South of Neck, where we go? Not so bad, last one only a little dusting of snow for three years."

That last sentence had to be a mistake in translating. Vincent started to ask Tyrion more, when suddenly he heard from one of the supposedly empty houses a voice in unmistakable English, "I don't know why they've got so many empty houses, but it sure makes these easy."

"Sure does," another voice agreed. "After we're done with these two pussies, we'll cut their throats. Any luck and we'll be long gone when they find their bodies."

Realizing what those men were saying, Vincent, Bill, and Tyrion all looked at each other in blank horror. Finally Vincent whispered, "You two stay here. I'm going to get Sergeant Barry."

As quickly and quietly as he could, Vincent ran back to the square, and to his surprise he saw not just Sgt. Barry but Sgt. Major Schuder next to each other, laughingly singing along to the Westerosi band trying to play 'Oh Susanna.'

"Sgt. Barry!" he cried. "Sgt. Schuder!"

The two noncoms turned to the young Quaker. Both had been drinking, Vincent could tell, but neither was intoxicated.

"What's this about, private?" Schuder asked.

As Vincent told them what he'd heard by the empty houses, the look on both sergeants' faces went from mild annoyance to cold fury. "You, you, you, and you," Schuder said, pointing to at least a dozen men. "Grab a rifle and come with us." Upset at having their revelry interrupted but unwilling to obey the sergeant major, the men did as he said. " _Jezt! Schnell, schnell, schnell!"_ That last got the men hopping; Schuder only reverted to German when he was truly indignant.

Along with the others Vincent grabbed a Springfield from one of the stacks piled near the table. This time he made no effort to quiet his footsteps as he led his comrades down to the house where Tyrion and Bill Webster were waiting outside.

Apparently the men inside still didn't know what was going on. They hadn't even bothered to bar the door as Schuder kicked his way in with Vincent and the others following him.

Inside were six Yankees, three of whom were holding down a young girl with the top of her dress torn off and her bare breasts exposed. Three others held another girl down on the floor, two pinning down her arms as another was on top of her, his hand over his mouth his pants down, her skirt rolled up-as soon as he realized what the man was doing, Vincent immediately brought the butt of his rifle down on the rapist's head.

The other miscreants were quickly subdued by the men Vincent brought. One of them even took off his jacket and placed it around the shoulders of the girl Vincent saw when he came in. He looked down at the other girl, the one whom the rapist had been taken off. She lay there as if comatose, her bare legs spread apart and blood spreading from them-Vincent felt his stomach churn as he realized she couldn't be much older than his sister Emily, who was eleven.

Suddenly the girl blinked, looked at Vincent and screamed. Tyrion appeared right at Vincent's side and spoke to her in their tongue. The girl quieted but still looked at Vincent and the others warily, the fear she felt still apparent.

"This girl, she think you want to force her too," Tyrian said. "I tell her no. Tell her that you angry with these men of yours, that you take them to Lord Stark. To punish."

"He's right," muttered Schuder. "The locals are going to have to know about this." The gruff old noncom gave a wistful sigh. "This really throws the shit into the soup-pot."

Vincent helped the rape victim to her feet, and like his comrade, took off his jacket and placed it around her. The other one, who hadn't been raped but came close spoke up.

"She say she Jeyne Pool," Tyrion translated. "Daughter of Lord Eddard's steward. Other girl, Betha Caswellher father Ser Roderick. Master of Arms. They come out here, curious to see you, when these men grab when no on looking and take here."

 _And we just happened to stumble upon them."_ Vincent thought bitterly.

"Hawthorne?" Vincent turned and could see the man who'd been raping the poor girl was none other the one who he hated most in the entire regiment. Dale Hinsen.

Hinsen was drunk, as were all his companions, and talking as if just waking up. "Hawthorne, you come here to sport with these gals too? Who'd a thought, you Quaker sissy?"

One thing that Vincent's parents and the church elders had taught him was that he should never take pleasure in the misfortune of others, even when it was earned. But somehow, he couldn't suppress the glee he felt when Schuder punched Hinsen in the stomach and spat tobacco juice in his face.

The Condemned

When he first woke up from his hangover, Jack Fredericks thought that his joining the Union Army and getting sent to this strange medieval world was all part of some whiskey fueled dream, and he was pack in that jail cell. But then he saw how dark the cell he was in, the five other men wearing blue uniforms as well as himself, and how they were all sitting on the floor and shackled to the wall of the cell by their wrists and ankles, and the chamber pot that stood at the very center of the room and smelled like it hadn't been emptied recently, he knew it was no dream.

His head hurt from the hangover; while the soldiers coming into that house had grabbed a hold of Jack hadn't struck him like they did Hinsen, who was now seated next to Fredericks and shackled like the rest them.

"God, does it smell in here," James Ferny, the only one of them not from the 35th but the 44th, grumbled.

"Probably just smelling yourself, you stupid Irishman," chortled Louis Ferron.

Colin Floyd spoke, "What do you think will happen? Do you think the rest just up and left us here?"

"Wouldn't surprise me," grumbled Hinsen. "Bastards, that's all them officers and sergeants are. We was just sporting with some sluts, and they lock us up here for it. Bastards, just bastards."

Now Fredericks recalled fully what they'd done the night before. After eating and drinking, the six of them had deciding to find some other amusement-and found those two girls near the empty houses.

What Fredericks recalled next made his blood run cold.

He had actually been one of the men holding down that one girl while Hinsen was on top of her, with his pants down-.

Why was he recalling this? Most of the things he'd done when drunk, like steal or get into barroom fights, he'd barely remember when sober. He couldn't even remember the look of the man he'd knifed in that last one, the one for which the judge later gave him the choice of prison or the army.

Then he remembered the short talk his father had given him, after he'd made that choice. Daniel Fredericks's voice never sounded so clear to him before: "Jack, your mother's praying to God that somehow, you'll come back from the war a better man. But not me. I've tried my best to raise you right but evidentially I failed. And God forgive me for saying this but there is only one hope I have for you now.

"I hope the Rebs kill you."

After hearing that Jack had laughed in his father's face and told him to expect to be disappointed yet again. But now it seemed the elder Fredericks would get his wish, even if it didn't come at the hands of the Confederates.

"What'll these people do us, you think?" Charlie Baxter, the youngest of the six here in this dungeon wondered out loud.

Jack could only imagine all too well. He'd read _The Pit and the Pendulum_ and other stories about medieval torture. It was about the only type of thing he'd ever enjoyed reading as a child but now he wished he hadn't images of being drawn and quartered, boiled alive, or having his head cut off and stuck on a pike flooded through his head.

Quietly, in a voice so low that he could barely hear himself, Jack said, "Lord, I don't know if You are out there, and even if You are You have no reason to listen to a wretched wastrel like me but please. If You can show me a way out of this, I swear I will never touch another drop of spirituous liquor, I will never use profane language, and I will never go to whorehouses or steal or lie again. I will BE the kind of man my parents would want me to be, if only You show me the way. Please, Lord, oh please."

Almost as soon as he'd finished, the sounds of boots on the stone floor reached Federicks's ears. They got nearer, and light from torches filled the dungeon, until finally the prisoners saw Colonel Keane standing in front of the cells bars. The colonel was accompanied the dwarf translator Tyrion, Captain Peter Kindred of Company C, and several locals, some of them carrying torches.

One of the locals unlocked the barred door, and Keane walked in with the dwarf, the captain, and another man, a local dressed all in black.

Keane looked at all of them; the torchlight reflecting of his glasses somehow made his expression of contempt even more intimidating.

Finally he spoke. "I know all of you," he said, his tone similar to Jack's father's in their last conversation. "I knew you all were drunkards, petty thieves, shirkers, layabouts, even potential deserters or bounty jumpers. Just about every unit in the army has some such. But I never would have figured any of you for THIS.

"Have you even thought about the kind of position this puts us in? Have you?" Fredericks had seen the colonel angry before, sometimes even at him, but never in this frightening fury. He cringed, dreading what his commanding officer would say next.

"You know what they do to rapists here?" Keane cried. "Tyrion told me: they CASTRATE them. And' in case you haven't notice we aren't in America anymore; there's no Eighth Amendment here to protect you from cruel and unusual punishment."

Dale Hinson stood up, and glared defiantly at the colonel. "So you're just gonna let these heathens cut our manhood for sporting with some hookers?"

Keane belted Hinson across the face; he may have had only one arm but he knew how to punch with it. He kicked his left foot across Dale's shin, sending the shackled private down on his rear. "THEY WEREN'T WHORES!" the colonel roared so loud that his voice made Fredericks ears ring. "One of them, the older one, she's the daughter of Lord Stark's steward. And the younger one, the one you," and he spat at Hinson who was now cringing, "stuck your cock in, her father happens to master of arms at this castle. She's only twelve years old; right now her father's trying to comfort her. Even whores deserve better than what you six were planning to do; Hawthorne told me the lot of you were planning to kill and leave them while we left for the capitol today-which thanks to you, got delayed while I had to spend the day talking and sorting everything out."

Keane took a deep breath before continuing, "We don't have time for a trial; The King is most anxious to leave, and you six are plainly guilty. That girl's father wants to geld the lot of you himself-and I'm tempted to let him. However, Tyrion informed me about a way they might spare your sorry lives and get some use out of you."

Keane looked back and the dark haired man in black stepped forward. "This here is Benjen Stark," Keane said. "He's Lord Eddard's brother, and an officer in what's called the Night's Watch. They're like a military unit that guards an enormous wall far to the north of here, from what I could tell that wall is like the long one they have in China and its purpose is to keep out the savage folk who live beyond it. They commonly take criminals; if you agree to join them, your crime will be erased like it never happened."

"Join them?" Feeny said incredulously. "We can't even _talk_ to them."

"Learn the language," Keane replied. "We'll all have to eventually; this way you'll be getting a baptism in total immersion. You can't take any rifles with you either; you'll have to fight with the kind of weapons they use here-swords, spears, axes or bows."

"And if you do this," Captain Kindred spoke up, "I'll be coming with you."

"Why?" Charlie said with snide curiosity. "So you can still lord it over us?"

"Not at all. I promised your sister," and Jack remember that Charlie and the captain were brothers-in-law, "when you joined the regiment that I'd keep that worthless ass of yours out of trouble. Evidently I failed; this will be my way of making it up to her."

"And if you join," Keane continued, "it's for life. You're not allowed to marry, and if you desert and get caught, they cut off your head. The choice is yours; I can't do anything more for you."

All six prisoners were silent for about a minute. Finally Feeny spoke up. "Better than losing me willy. I'm in."

"Me too," said Floyd.

"Same with me," put in Charlie.

"And me," added Ferron.

"And you two?" Keane looked at Fredericks and Hinsen.

"Sure, said Hinson, his voice surly.

Jack gave his own affirmation, and the dwarf spoke to the man Benjen, presumably translating their consent. And Fredericks strangely felt elated as he realized something.

God had answered his prayer.

End of Chapter Three

Whew, this chapter took such a long time to write. Mainly I wanted this to be the one that sets the 'ripple effect' that will really start to change the overall plotline of a Song of Ice and Fire.

About Castle Blackfyre, you can learn about it-or more specifically about its builder and sole lord, Daemon Blackfyre and the Blackfyre Rebellion in the _World of Ice and Fire_ or simply on any IaF or GoT related website.

Now I know most readers are more familiar with GoT than the Lost Regiment series, so I thought I'd need to point out a few things. Jack Fredericks and most of his compadres except for Dale Hinson are OC's I created because I realized with Jon not at the Wall we would still need to see what's happening there. And for Fredericks, this is the beginning of a road to redemption from the kind of life he's lived before and he does become a different person. You could even say this is God's way of saving him-but the Almighty's full answer is 'Alright, but you're not getting off scot-free.'

Some readers might object here about Jon going down to King's Landing and near Robert. But remember, most of the time he'll be in the Yankees' company, and at Castle Blackfyre-which itself will be getting a new name. Whenever he comes into the capitol he'll be reporting directly to Eddard and Robert will hardly ever see him.

The next chapters I post won't be so long and hopefully won't take so long to post. I actually wanted to include some more scenes like Benjen and Eddard discussing Jon's situation and future but I wanted to get this chapter posted before the TV series ended. I don't want to give away to many spoilers, but in the upcoming chapters you will see Theon along with Robb and Maester Luwin look at the _Ogunquit's_ steam engine, at the Trident Jon learns how to load and fire a rifle musket, Kathleen O'Rielly becomes acquainted with Sansa and Arya-and regretfully Cersei, the Lords Paramount all receive news of the stranger's arrival and of some great event at the capital, Keane and the other Yankees learn it's more than just culture and technology that make this new world different from the one they left behind-and the Citadel has proof that this is not the first time people from our world have been in Westeros.

Send in your reviews and tell me what you'd like to see. I'll also be happy to answer whatever questions you may have.

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	4. Chapter 4

Game of Thrones/Song of Ice and Fire and all related characters are the property of George R. R. Martin, Bantam publishing, and HBO. The Lost Regiment and all related characters are likewise the property of William R. Forstchen and Roc publishing. No money is being made from the use of such characters here, so I have to right this disclaimer. Happy, whoever thought of copyright laws?

Andrew

The 35th Maine and 44th New York awoke to depart from Winterfell at the crack of dawn. As much as what happened with the two girls infuriated Keane, it had given him and his men more time to prepare for the journey.

The men had gone back to the Ogunquit and brought back everything they needed. There were rations enough for six months, half a million rounds of rifle ammunition, and two thousand rounds for the fieldpieces. There were also hundreds of spare uniforms and shoes, 150 extra Springfields, 250 smoothbore muskets as part of the Ogunquit's standard armory, pickaxes, shovels, and the myriad personal effects of over six hundred men and one woman.

The extra Springfields had been a sore point with Cromwell. The cantankerous captain had wanted to keep them with the ship, as well as one of the 44th's Napoleons and a company of riflemen. Keane found convincing Tobias that would be in advisable, since they needed to impose on Winterfell as little as they could, especially after the rape incident, far more aggravating than dealing with Lord Eddard and King Robert.

Finally he'd managed to get the captain to accept that the smoothbores would be armament enough for the sailors in case they got into trouble. Keane hoped it wouldn't come to that but was glad that he wouldn't have to deal with Cromwell for at least two months.

Pooling together their monetary resources, the Yankees had been able to purchase wagons and horses to haul their supplies and the 44th's cannons. Gold and silver were already part of the Westerosi exchange, and the local merchants readily accepted the Yankees' gold and silver dollar pieces, as well as greenbacks if no reason other than their value as ornaments and curiosities.

And they would also accept things besides money. With an issue of _Harper's Illustrated Weekly,_ one lieutenant was able to purchase enough horses to serve as mounts for the regiment's senior officers.

Before they departed, Keane walked up to two iron-caged wagons where another group would be going in the opposite direction.

In one wagon the five remaining knights sat, bound and shackled. Two of them looked at Keane with open hostility; the others with them simply stared. Keane ignored them; his main concern was with the other cart.

To Keane's surprise, the last of them, Private Feeny, was just being loaded into the wagon, and that Father Casmir was had been walking alongside him. The priest turned, and saw they colonel.

"Oh, Colonel," Casmir said. "Private Feeny wanted to have a last confession before departing, and I was able to persuade the guards through gestures that it was something that must be done in private. And Private Fredericks wanted a Bible."

"Oh." Keane shrugged and looked at the man he'd come to see.

Captain Kindred walked up Keane. "Here to wish me off?" he asked.

Andrew nodded. "I wish you would reconsider. I hate to lose a good officer."

The captain looked down and stared at his feet. "I can't. My wife's back in Maine; I'll never see her again," and by the way his voice broke Keane could tell he was trying hard to hold back his emotions, "in her last letter she told me she was pregnant. I'll never get to see my child; the only thing left now is to simply honor my promise to watch over her useless brother." Andrew thought about the hundred or so other men in the regiment who were married, many of them with children back home. How would they take it once they realized they were in this world for good, with no chance of ever seeing their families again?

Kindred glared at the wagon where Private Baxter was sitting, shackled like the other prisoners before continuing, "I suppose you're here for this," he said, and handed Andrew his holstered revolver and cap pouch. "I won't be able to keep it in ammunition where I'm going. But I've still got this." He touched the hilt of his sword. "I guess I'm going to need to get it sharpened."

Despite his grin, Andrew seriously pondered Kindred's words. In the war back home, swords were considered obsolete as weapons, and mainly used by officers for guiding and directing men; when they had to fight officers relied on their pistols. Here it could likely work differently. He realized he would probably need to step up bayonet practice with the men as well; he did not want them to be helpless if a fight came to close quarters.

The colonel turned to have one last look at the men in wagons. Hinsen and Ferron still looked defiant; Charlie Baxter, Feeny, and Colin simply sat there. Jack Fredericks looked up from the Bible Father Casmir had given him.

"These will probably be the last words you ever hear from me," Keane said sternly. "The six of you have been given this one chance to actually make something of your miserable lives. Don't waste it."

And with that he turned and walked back to where the rest of his men were waiting. A private came up to him with Mercury, saddled and bridled. Instead of mounting, however, he waited. Emil likewise had come by leading his white mare.

Soon, he saw Eddard Stark mounted on his own horse, with Tyrion Lannister by his side. It impressed Keane how Tyrion was able to ride a normal sized horse with his stunted body; he wondered if it had to do with the unusual saddle the dwarf used. The colonel decided to ask him about it when he had the chance.

"Keane," Lord Eddard said as he nodded his head.

"Lord Stark," replied Andrew.

Through the dwarf Stark said, "I was asked by Ser Roderick to tell you as furious as he is for what those six did to his daughter he bears neither you nor the rest of your men any ill will. Your own men caught them and took the appropriate action; they will pay for their crime on the Wall."

"They're no big loss," Keane muttered. "The only one I'll miss is Kindred; he's a good captain."

"I heard," Eddard said. "It would be good for the Watch though, to gain such a man." The Lord of Winterfell, and Hand of the King stood silently on his horse beside Andrew Emil, and Tyrion, as the entire royal party set out for the journey. The men of the regiment were standing at attention, as King Robert and his personal entourage rode past the Yankees all saluted in unison.

They were followed by the largest carriage Andrew had ever seen; the colonel had been told that it was called a 'wheelhouse.' The Queen and her retinue of ladies in waiting travelled in it; as it neared the regiment the wheelhouse stopped. A door opened, and Kathleen O'Reilly stepped towards it.

"Take care of yourself, Miss O'Reilly," Andrew said.

"I will," she replied. She'd been with him at the banquet two nights ago, and had attracted a good deal of attention from the women, most of whom were curious about her hoop-skirted dress.

She'd also caught the King's attention as well; Andrew had saw Robert give her long glances, even while he was pawing the servant girls-right in the presence of the Queen. From what Tyrion told him, Robert's marriage to Cersei was a political union, and his Grace was a notorious philanderer. He seemed to lose interest after Kathleen paid him no attention, however.

Andrew told himself that the relief he felt had nothing to do with any attraction he himself had for the nurse. He'd never feel that way about a woman again. Not after Mary betrayed him.

"It certainly looks more comfortable than a railroad car." Kathleen's words brought the colonel back to the present. "And what would my friends back in Boston think if they knew I'd be traveling with a Queen?"

She stepped inside the wheelhouse; after the door closed the royal party continued again.

As the last of the royal party went past, the host from Winterfell who would be accompanying Lord Eddard came past the regiment. One thing Keane noticed was how austere the Northerners seemed compared to the King's band-the soldiers' armor was plain but functional, the others accompanying them rode in simple covered wagons that rather resembled Conastogas. Even the carriage carrying Eddard Stark's daughters lacked any special ornamentation, reflecting a rather elegant plainness.

"I must be going," Tyrion translated Stark's words to Keane. "When we make camp tonight, I would like for you to come and bring the two men of your, Hawthorne and Webster; my man Valon wishes to personally give them his gratitude."

Andrew nodded in agreement. He was glad things had gone so well; he wouldn't have blamed either girl's fathers if they spread their hatred to the rest of his men as well as the six rapists.

The Lord of Winterfell nudged his horse forward and joined the host from his castle. Traveling mostly on foot, the Yankees would be traveling at the very tail end of the entire party.

Soon after Eddard left, Andrew saw the last person he'd been waiting for come to join the regiment leading a horse and talking to two other young men.

Strange, Andrew mused. Jon Snow and his half-brother Robb looked close enough in age to be fraternal twins; if he'd met Jon at the introduction banquet that's what he'd have assumed they were. Undoubtedly Jon's bastard status had had something to do with him not being present.

The other boy, Theon Greyjoy-when Keane met him he'd thought the lad another of Eddard's children, until Tyrion explained to him that Theon's father Baelon Greyjoy had risen in rebellion against Robert and was crushed. Theon's two older brothers had died in the fighting; as Lord Baelon's last son Theon was given to Eddard formally as a ward but in truth a hostage for his father's good behavior.

The half-brother's embraced each other, and then Jon walked his horse over to the Yankees, that wolf-or direwolf, Tyrion had called it-named Ghost trotting up behind. He said through Tyrion, "I'm ready, Colonel Keane," stood erect, and gave a salute.

Andrew returned the salute. "Good. Now remember," Tyrion translated his words, "we are a unit of foot soldiers. You may ride your horse while we travel to our destination, and keeps him as yours. But if you take part in any fighting with us, you will be marching on foot. Is that understood?"

Jon nodded affirmatively.

"Good." Andrew Keane turned to the rest of his men. "All right boys, this here is Jon Snow," he began deciding not to explain his bastard status. Westerosi had a curious custom in giving bastard children of highborn lords and knights surnames in regard to the region they were from. Even more curious, the common meaning of those surnames-Snow, Rivers, Sand, Storm, Stone, and Hill-all sounded nearly identical to their English counterparts. "He's going to be joining our regiment as our first Westerosi recruit, so how about we give an open welcome to Private Snow?"

Cheers and shouts ran up and down the lines of the Yankee formation. Jon may not have understood the words but he seemed to understand the sentiment; he smiled and nodded back.

Keane looked back at Jon. "When we get to-Castle Blackfyre?-" he began, "we'll get you a uniform and gear, and you can begin drilling. Until then, stay with me and the other officers, learn our language best you can. Understand?"

Jon nodded and replied through Tyrion, "Understood, colonel."

The regimental musicians began to play the marching beat, and the 35th Maine and 44th New York made there wall from Winterfell on the journey south.

The castle was slip from view behind them when Andrew saw a large flock of ravens flying south ahead of entire column. It would have meant nothing to him except Tyrion had told him earlier how the maesters used ravens to send messages to the castles and cities throughout Westeros. Not as fast or reliable as a good telegraph but not a bad messaging system.

Keane suddenly realized something else. "You really are becoming fluent in our language," he said to Tyrion, who was riding beside him. "In all the translating today, we haven't had to go back and forth once."

The dwarf simply gave a wide smile. "I've been getting a lot of practice."

Daenerys

Daenerys Targaryen wed Khal Drogo with fear and barbaric splendor in a field beyond the walls of Pentos, for the Dothraki believed that all things of importance in a man's life must be done beneath the open sky.

Drogo had called his khalasar to attend him and they had come, forty thousand Dothraki warriors and uncounted numbers of women, children, and slaves. Outside the city walls they camped with their vast herds, raising palaces of woven grass, eating everything in sight, and making the good folk of Pentos more anxious with every passing day.

"My fellow magisters have doubled the size of the city guard," Illyrio told them over platters of honey duck and orange snap peppers one night at the manse that had been Drogo's. The khal had joined his khalasar, his estate given over to Daenerys and her brother until the wedding.

"Best we get Princess Daenerys wedded quickly before they hand half the wealth of Pentos away to sellswords and bravos," Ser Jorah Mormont jested. The exile had offered her brother his sword the night Dany had been sold to Kbal Drogo; Viserys had accepted eagerly. Mormont had been their constant companion ever since.

Magister Illyrio laughed lightly through his forked beard, but Viserys did not so much as smile. "He can have her tomorrow, if he likes," her brother said. He glanced over at Dany, and she lowered her eyes. "So long as he pays the price."

Illyrio waved a languid hand in the air, rings glittering on his fat fingers. "I have told you, all is settled. Trust me. The khal has promised you a crown, and you shall have it."

"Yes, but when?"

"When the khal chooses," Illyrio said. "He will have the girl first, and after they are wed he must make his procession across the plains and present her to the dosh khaleen at Vaes Dothrak. After that, perhaps. If the omens favor war."

Viserys seethed with impatience. "I piss on Dothraki omens. The Usurper sits on my father's throne. How long must I wait?"

Illyrio gave a massive shrug. "You have waited most of your life, great king. What are another few months, another few years?"

Ser Jorah, who had traveled as far east as Vaes Dothrak, nodded in agreement. "I counsel you to be patient, Your Grace. The Dothraki are true to their word, but they do things in their own time. A lesser man may beg a favor from the khal, but must never presume to berate him."

Viserys bristled. "Guard your tongue, Mormont, or I'll have it out. I am no lesser man; I am the rightful Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. The dragon does not beg."

Ser Jorah lowered his eyes respectfully. Illyrio smiled enigmatically and tore a wing from the duck. Honey and grease ran over his fingers and dripped down into his beard as he nibbled at the tender meat. There are no more dragons, Dany thought, staring at her brother, though she did not dare say it aloud.

Yet that night she dreamt of one. Viserys was hitting her, hurting her. She was naked, clumsy with fear. She ran from him, but her body seemed thick and ungainly. He struck her again. She stumbled and fell. "You woke the dragon," he screamed as he kicked her. "You woke the dragon, you woke the dragon." Her thighs were slick with blood. She closed her eyes and whimpered. As if in answer, there was a hideous ripping sound and the crackling of some great fire. When she looked again, Viserys was gone, great columns of flame rose all around, and in the midst of them was the dragon. It turned its great head slowly. When its molten eyes found hers, she woke, shaking and covered with a fine sheen of sweat. She had never been so afraid . . .. . . until the day of her wedding came at last.

The ceremony began at dawn and continued until dusk, an endless day of drinking and feasting and fighting. A mighty earthen ramp had been raised amid the grass palaces, and there Dany was seated beside Khal Drogo, above the seething sea of Dothraki. She had never seen so many people in one place, nor people so strange and frightening. The horselords might put on rich fabrics and sweet perfumes when they visited the Free Cities, but out under the open sky they kept the old ways. Men and women alike wore painted leather vests over bare chests and horsehair leggings cinched by bronze medallion belts, and the warriors greased their long braids with fat from the rendering pits. They gorged themselves on horseflesh roasted with honey and peppers, drank themselves blind on fermented mare's milk and Illyrio's fine wines, and spat jests at each other across the fires, their voices harsh and alien in Dany's ears.

Viserys was seated just below her, splendid in a new black wool tunic with a scarlet dragon on the chest. Illyrio and Ser Jorah sat beside him. Theirs was a place of high honor, just below the khal's own bloodriders, but Dany could see the anger in her brother's lilac eyes. He did not like sitting beneath her, and he fumed when the slaves offered each dish first to the khal and his bride, and served him from the portions they refused. He could do nothing but nurse his resentment, so nurse it he did, his mood growing blacker by the hour at each insult to his person.

Dany had never felt so alone as she did seated in the midst of that vast horde. Her brother had told her to smile, and so she smiled until her face ached and the tears came unbidden to her eyes. She did her best to hide them, knowing how angry Viserys would be if he saw her crying, terrified of how Khal Drogo might react. Food was brought to her, steaming joints of meat and thick black sausages and Dothraki blood pies, and later fruits and sweetgrass stews and delicate pastries from the kitchens of Pentos, but she waved it all away. Her stomach was a roil, and she knew she could keep none of it down.

To get her mind off of her stomach, Dany found herself listening to the whispering between her brother, Illyrio, and the exiled knight.

"I must inform Your Grace," said Illyrio, "that my contacts in King's Landing have told me about a mysterious group of strangers that have appeared in the North, and were discovered by Robert and Lord Stark."

"My own sources tell me the same," concurred Ser Jorah.

Viserys only took a pull of his winecup. "Why do you bore me with this? So the Usurper has hired himself a new company of sellswords; what of it? The Dothraki will just ride over them like any other host."

Ser Jorah let out a long sigh; his expression made Dany think of a tutor trying to make a point to an especially dull student. "These are not ordinary sellswords, I am afraid. What I hear sounds fantastic, but I trust my sources. Apparently these strangers have weapons of unusual power that can send lead projectiles hurtling at speeds so fast, they strike farther and hit harder than any arrow."

"Indeed," replied the fat Pentoshi merchant. "Such weapons, if my contacts in King's Landing speak true, would greatly increase the Usurper's hold on your realm, Your Grace, for they can make even the best armor useless."

"Well then," said Viserys with a chuckle, "it's a good thing the Dothraki don't wear armor, isn't it?"

Later that night, as she was in Khal Drogo's arms, naked underneath the open sky outside the city, Dani found herself thinking about her brother's words.

If what Illyrio and Ser Jorah said was true, and these strangers who had taken service with the Usurper really did have weapons of such power, how many lives would it take to subdue them? How high would the cost be? And if Viserys was so callous about that, then what kind of king would he make to the people of the Seven Kingdoms.

Those thoughts kept Dany up for most of the night before she finally fell asleep.

Eddard

The summons came in the hour before the dawn, when the world was still and grey.

Alyn shook him roughly from his dreams and Ned stumbled into the predawn chill, groggy from sleep, to find his horse saddled and the king already mounted. Robert wore thick brown gloves and a heavy fur cloak with a hood that covered his ears, and looked for all the world like a bear sitting a horse. "Up, Stark!" he roared. "Up, up! We have matters of state to discuss."

"By all means," Ned said. "Come inside, Your Grace." Alyn lifted the flap of the tent.

"No, no, no," Robert said. His breath steamed with every word. "The camp is full of ears. Besides, I want to ride out and taste this country of yours." Ser Meryn waited behind him with a dozen guardsmen, Ned saw. There was nothing to do but rub the sleep from his eyes, dress, and mount up.

Robert set the pace, driving his huge black destrier hard as Ned galloped along beside him, trying to keep up. He called out a question as they rode, but the wind blew his words away, and the king did not hear him. After that Ned rode in silence. They soon left the kingsroad and took off across rolling plains dark with mist. By then the guard had fallen back a small distance, safely out of earshot, but still Robert would not slow.

Dawn broke as they crested a low ridge, and finally the king pulled up. By then they were miles south of the main party. Robert was flushed and exhilarated as Ned reined up beside him. "Gods," he swore, laughing, "it feels good to get out and ride the way a man was meant to ride! I swear, Ned, this creeping along is enough to drive a man mad." He had never been a patient man, Robert Baratheon. "That damnable wheelhouse, the way it creaks and groans, climbing every bump in the road as if it were a mountain . . . I promise you, if that wretched thing breaks another axle, I'm going to burn it, and Cersei can walk!"

Ned laughed. "I will gladly light the torch for you."

"Good man!" The king clapped him on the shoulder. "I've half a mind to leave them all behind and just keep going."

A smile touched Ned's lips. "I do believe you mean it."

"I do, I do," the king said. "What do you say, Ned? Just you and me, two vagabond knights on the kingsroad, our swords at our sides and the gods know what in front of us, and maybe a farmer's daughter or a tavern wench to warm our beds tonight."

"Would that we could," Ned said, "but we have duties now, my liege . . . to the realm, to our children, I to my lady wife and you to your queen. We are not the boys we were."

"You were never the boy you were," Robert grumbled. "More's the pity. And yet there was that one time . . . what was her name, that common girl of yours? Becca? No, she was one of mine, gods love her, black hair and these sweet big eyes, you could drown in them. Yours was . . . Aleena? No. You told me once. Was it Merryl? You know the one I mean, your bastard's mother?"

"Her name was Wylla," Ned replied with cool courtesy, "and I would sooner not speak of her."

"Wylla. Yes." The king grinned. "She must have been a rare wench if she could make Lord Eddard Stark forget his honor, even for an hour. You never told me what she looked like . . . "

Ned's mouth tightened in anger. "Nor will I. Leave it be, Robert, for the love you say you bear me. I dishonored myself and I dishonored Catelyn, in the sight of gods and men."

"Gods have mercy, you scarcely knew Catelyn."

"I had taken her to wife. She was carrying my child."

"You are too hard on yourself, Ned. You always were. Damn it, no woman wants Baelor the Blessed in her bed." He slapped a hand on his knee. "Well, I'll not press you if you feel so strong about it, though I swear, at times you're so prickly you ought to take the hedgehog as your sigil."

The rising sun sent fingers of light through the pale white mists of dawn. A wide plain spread out beneath them, bare and brown, its flatness here and there relieved by long, low hummocks. Ned pointed them out to his king. "The barrows of the First Men."

Robert frowned. "Have we ridden onto a graveyard?"

"There are barrows everywhere in the north, Your Grace," Ned told him. "This land is old."

"And cold," Robert grumbled, pulling his cloak more tightly around himself. The guard had reined up well behind them, at the bottom of the ridge. "Well, I did not bring you out here to talk of graves or bicker about your bastard. There was a rider in the night, from Lord Varys in King's Landing. Here." The king pulled a paper from his belt and handed it to Ned.

Varys the eunuch was the king's master of whisperers. He served Robert now as he had once served Aerys Targaryen. Ned unrolled the paper with trepidation, thinking of Lysa and her terrible accusation, but the message did not concern Lady Arryn. "What is the source for this information?"

"Do you remember Ser Jorah Mormont?"

"Would that I might forget him," Ned said bluntly. The Mormonts of Bear Island were an old house, proud and honorable, but their lands were cold and distant and poor. Ser Jorah had tried to swell the family coffers by selling some poachers to a Tyroshi slaver. As the Mormonts were bannermen to the Starks, his crime had dishonored the north. Ned had made the long journey west to Bear Island, only to find when he arrived that Jorah had taken ship beyond the reach of Ice and the king's justice. Five years had passed since then.

"Ser Jorah is now in Pentos, anxious to earn a royal pardon that would allow him to return from exile," Robert explained. "Lord Varys makes good use of him."

"So the slaver has become a spy," Ned said with distaste. He handed the letter back. "I would rather he become a corpse."

"Varys tells me that spies are more useful than corpses," Robert said. "Jorah aside, what do you make of his report?"

"Daenerys Targaryen has wed some Dothraki horselord. What of it? Shall we send her a wedding gift?"

The king frowned; Robert's hatred of the Targaryens was a madness in him. He remembered the angry words they had exchanged when Tywin Lannister had presented Robert with the corpses of Rhaegar's wife and children as a token of fealty. Ned had named that murder; Robert called it war. When he had protested that the young prince and princess were no more than babes, his new-made king had replied, "I see no babes. Only dragonspawn." Not even Jon Arryn had been able to calm that storm. Eddard Stark had ridden out that very day in a cold rage, to fight the last battles of the war alone in the south. It had taken another death to reconcile them; Lyanna's death, and the grief they had shared over her passing.

This time, Ned resolved to keep his temper. "Your Grace, the girl is scarcely more than a child. You are no Tywin Lannister, to slaughter innocents." It was said that Rhaegar's little girl had cried as they dragged her from beneath her bed to face the swords. The boy had been no more than a babe in arms, yet Lord Tywin's soldiers had torn him from his mother's breast and dashed his head against a wall.

"And how long will this one remain an innocent?" Robert's mouth grew hard. "This child will soon enough spread her legs and start breeding more dragonspawn to plague me."

"Nonetheless," Ned said, "the murder of children . . . it would be vile . . . unspeakable . . . "

"Unspeakable?" the king roared. "What Aerys did to your brother Brandon was unspeakable. The way your lord father died, that was unspeakable. And Rhaegar . . . how many times do you think he raped your sister? How many hundreds of times?" His voice had grown so loud that his horse whinnied nervously beneath him. The king jerked the reins hard, quieting the animal, and pointed an angry finger at Ned. "I will kill every Targaryen I can get my hands on, until they are as dead as their dragons, and then I will piss on their graves."

Ned knew better than to defy him when the wrath was on him. If the years had not quenched Robert's thirst for revenge, no words of his would help. "You can't get your hands on this one, can you?" he said quietly.

The king's mouth twisted in a bitter grimace. "No, gods be cursed. Some pox-ridden Pentoshi cheesemonger had her brother and her walled up on his estate with pointy-hatted eunuchs all around them, and now he's handed them over to the Dothraki. I should have had them both killed years ago, when it was easy to get at them, but Jon was as bad as you. More fool I, I listened to him."

"Jon Arryn was a wise man and a good Hand."

They rode on for some time, and came upon where the Yankees were encamped. The men in blue were already up and about, and getting breaking up their camp for the day's journey. _They truly must be experienced soldiers,_ Eddard thought, _to be up and ready so early_. He had no doubt the knights and men at arms in the King's entourage would just as ready to leave as these men were but for the Queen and her ladies, the servants, and most of the smallfolk accompanying the royal party, getting ready would take far longer; they were used to getting up later and unused to the sudden breaking of a camp.

Eddard looked on with approval as he saw that the officers, whom Jon had taught him to recognize by the embroidered straps on the shoulders of their blue jackets, were actually helping in the breaking down of the white canvas tents they had brought from their ship and loading the wagons for the day; Eddard would have done the same in their shoes; he knew from experience that soldiers had more real respect for commanders who did not act as if they were above their subordinates.

Keane was sitting in a camp chair as several of his own soldiers took his tent down. He was the only Yankee not assisting with the preparations but Eddard felt that was more due to him having only one arm than any lordly aloofness.

Observing the Yankees brought something else to his mind. "Remember, these men have promised to share their weapons and their secrets with us. Even if the Dothraki were to gain the ships needed, it would take considerable time for them to prepare for the departure-by that time, the Yankee weapons would have been made and distributed throughout the realm; what could the Dothraki do against their power?"

The expression on the King's face shifted, as if considering the prospect. Suddenly Robert's face broke into a grin, and, true to his mercurial nature, burst into a loud, booming laugh.

"Oh yes, Ned." Robert finally said. "I hadn't thought of that; I must have been drinking more than usual." He gave a few more laughs, then went on, "Perhaps we shall send a wedding gift. I've still got the skulls of the Targaryen dragons in the Red Keep-I'll knock a couple of teeth from each of them and send them across the Narrow Sea-to remind what's left of the Dragonspawn of how toothless they are! Oh, if only I could see the look on the Beggar King's face!" Still laughing, he kicked his horse back into motion and galloped up over the barrow, raining earth down behind him.

For a moment Ned did not follow. Although pleased to have talked his old friend out of the vile deed Robert was contemplating, he was filled with a vast sense of helplessness. He knew he was no Jon Arryn, to curb the wildness of his king and teach him wisdom. Robert would do what he pleased, as he always had, and nothing Ned could say or do would change that. He belonged in Winterfell. He belonged with Catelyn in her grief, and with Bran.

A man could not always be where he belonged, though. Resigned, Eddard Stark put his boots into his horse and set off after the king.

End of Chapter Four

Alright, I meant for this chapter and the last to show the beginnings of a 'rippling effect,' that would start the changes to the canon GoT storyline. Try to guess what _won't_ happen, based on what you've read so far.

Another issue I feel I need to address is that I've got a couple of anonymous reviews wondering why I'm bothering with having showing the Westerosi common tongue as a different language. Yes, in the books and the TV series it's presented as archaic English but seriously? HBO's Rome was done in English but we all know that the ancient Romans spoke Latin.

For the next chapter I plan to have Casterly Rock receive a raven carrying news of Yankees coming, what Robert's got planned, and what's going through the mind of Tywin Lannister. The Citadel


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